Mars
by xRainyDaysxx
Summary: Thirteen-year-old Cassie Yeager isn't afraid of public speaking or making her intentions known. But she is afraid of losing. Losing her poverty-stricken home, her father's optimistic attitude, and her older sister, Tessa. However, when her dad brings home a rusted, sad truck, Cassie finds out just how much people are willing to take . . . Until there's nothing.
1. Chapter 1: Orenda

**Usually, I tend to write for the TV show _"The Walking Dead"_ but I set out on a quest to test out new waters. The Transformers franchise has always been a fiction to which I have adored since a very young age, so I felt compelled to explore the topic. That being stated, this particular fanfiction takes place during the events of the fourth movie: _"Age of Extinction"._**

 ***I do not own Transformers. It belongs to its rightful owner.***

* * *

 _"There is goodness in the heart_

 _Of every broken man._

 _Who comes right up to the edge_

 _Of losing everything he has."_

 _~ Sleeping at Last: Mars_

* * *

Chapter 1: Orenda

 _\- (noun) a mystical force present in all people that empowers them to affect the world, or to effect change in their own lives._

 _855-363-8392_

Every day I repeat those digits, that number, in my head – _quietly._ No one but myself knows I do so, and I can't think that most of the kids even notice the billboard that wasn't there five years ago planted in the cornfield. The flat land housing the sign that encourages being mindful is intercepted by rusty rails and chipped boards on a train track, and a dirt road where all you can see through the gray is imprints tires made, wear and tear. Every bump, every disturbance in the surface, can be felt on that road, the same path we travel on every day.

And so during the ride home on the yellow school bus – where I always seem to sit by the window – I press my face close to the glass, to where it fogs the tiniest bit, as we turn on that certain road. I wait for a cutting edge to peer over stalks of corn and that's when I recite:

 _855-363-8392_

I get it right, checking back over my shoulder to make sure while we pass. It was only the first few times after the scenery changed on bus rides that I could not quite grasp all the numbers as I furiously scribbled on notebook paper. At the time, I was eight and it was hard to tell a three from an eight or a nine from a six. Now, I pretend that the number is my home phone number that never rings because it most likely got disconnected, or a cell phone I don't have. Pretending is so much easier; offers an excuse, adds purpose.

 _Purpose._ That's what memorizing the number is lacking.

 _"Remember Chicago."_ is what the board says, and I do, but I also know how to report alien activity because of it. Maybe that is the trick of it all . . . Because when it boils down to it, I don't know if I would, if I _could._ Telling myself otherwise in knowing a simple phone number is what helps; living in a false reality. Lying is bad but doing nothing is worse.

The bus squeals to a stop when it runs out of road, the engine – which I have become accustomed to – idling. It is an older model and big and hefty, but it gives the vehicle minor character, at least. I can spot it easily in the school parking lot.

Knowing this is my stop because it is never changing; I stand and haul my backpack over my shoulder, swearing the object gets heavier every new school year. I mosey down the slim walkway wedged between seats. Most kids don't look at me so it makes it easy for them to become background noise once more. The bus doors are open when I reach the front, little red stop sign put out for no one I wouldn't already know because we don't get unfamiliar traffic here.

Clambering down the steps, my feet collide with the soil at the exact moment the humidity with my skin does. The bus drives off to some place I do not care about enough to look for and I'm caught in its wake, coughing as dust from the back tires reach me. I readjust my position by swinging the other backpack strap over my shoulder, and then I begin the same journey I do every weekday to the same destination.

Lockhart, Texas. A town that isn't as sleepy as it used to be, except for the outskirts. Some people at school who came from elsewhere claim Texas to be a dusty state . . . but I think it is beautiful, Lockhart, at least. The only dust is that of what we create from disturbing nature, yet they act as if this place is suffocating. I like the ruggedness of farms and ranch style homes.

I pass the neighbor's cow field and spot little, black heads poking over the tall grass; they're sprinkled around the space. Tessa's friend or whoever lives there, I think – can't remember her name. She's pretty, though; just like my sister and all of her friends. Guess looks was something that didn't get passed down to me . . .

My pace is brisk and I arrive at the cluster of mailboxes settled under the oak tree faster than expected. My boots slide across gravel as I halt. I scan over the various paint-chipped mailboxes as I recall the second number I have stored in my brain because it is my job.

 _803, 803, 803 . . ._

Third one down, covered in bold advertisements – _803, Yeager._ Bingo.

Opening the mailbox, I remove its contents, stuffing them into an empty pouch in my book bag. I close the mailbox up and continue on down to my next task at a chicken coop a few feet off. Instead of chickens, clutter greets me, and I grab smaller items of the many, dumping them into an awaiting, red wagon. I catch a glimpse of the sign, making sure it is there because people need to know –

 _"Neighbors –_

 _Drop repairs here_

 _Pay what you feel it's worth."_

Yeah, it's still there.

Sighing, I grip the wagon's handle with both hands and haul it around. I begin going up the long driveway to the house – which sits in the middle of a wheat field – lugging the weighted object behind me. My dad owns a local company called _Yeager Robotics_ or something along those lines; doesn't matter because it still isn't enough to get us out of this hole we've dug. He fixes other people's junk or tries to invent his own. It makes him feel better, I think, because he never got the opportunity to put everything back together in his own life. Mom died during childbirth with me . . . his inventions never work out properly either. But yet he still tries. I wonder why sometimes.

I drop the wagon off in the front lawn and upon my arrival, the same face that greets me everyday busts through the front door. He barks what is supposed to be "imitating" as Dad called it, and I merely reach down to scratch behind his metal ear,

"Hey, boy."

The robotic dog wags his tail made up of strong, bendable wire. He moves into what I assume was supposed to be a roll over, but instead flops to the wooden planks of the porch in a bark, wheels spinning. I sit it right-side-up, grumbling about how a real dog would be better. Dad isn't into organics, though, despite the fact he is one. I never named the dog like he suggested because there's no use getting attached, thing only works half the time. So I call it dog or him – he has a gender, at least.

I rip the bright orange _EVICTION NOTICE_ off the screen door and head inside.

Depositing my backpack on the kitchen floor, I toss the mail on the table and the sealed information expands and scatters across the wood surface. The dog followed me in and I hear him rolling down the hallway after me. I crumple the "notice" that is still in hand and throw it in the trashcan. It is proudly pasted to the front door each evening and I don't need the reminder because I know, _I know._

 _I know everything is going to hell._

I fall back into one of the kitchen chairs only to hear my older sister's shoes tapping on the front porch steps. The dog whirls to the door, pushing through while barking.

"Yes, I know I'm home," Tessa says, a hint of annoyance in her tone, _"thank you."_

The robotic dog's broken voice gurgles out, _"Intruder alert! Intruder alert! Back away from the premises!"_

"Voice recognition. It's me!" She's close to the door now, her voice easier to pick up on.

 _"I am dialing 911."_

"Go right ahead." The door opens – slams. "I don't care . . ."

 _"I'm still calling 911."_

I snort, resting my feet on the kitchen table. The thing won't call – never does.

"Cassie!?" she calls, her voice bouncing and echoing off the hallway walls.

I yell back, even though she's right there because we're sisters after all, "Yeah?"

"Did you get the mail?!"

"Of course!"

And then she's here, standing in the archway. Her dirty-blonde hair hanging around her face; the same hair I have only hers is lighter. Tessa's overshirt – a flannel – is coiled around her arm and her one-strapped book bag slouches heavily down to her thigh. We meet eyes, her green on my brown, and then she glues them to the tips of my boots pressed into the surface of the kitchen table. I drop my legs and they fall with a single thud, a prickly feeling running back into the limbs. I lean back further in the chair.

She doesn't speak a word of the incident because she may just be too tired to. That's fine by me . . . I don't need her to _patronize_ me – not her. I learned that word in school, means to talk to someone like they're a little kid. I may be thirteen and Dad says I'm a kid, but I am not _little._

Tessa reaches over my head for the mail on the table. "Jesus, Cassie, you don't need to chuck it."

What? We already know what's in there: overdue payments, final notices, discreet threats – the paper plastered on the door is enough for me.

But I forgot an aspect, I realize, when she pulls out one letter that is different from the angry looking ones. It looks more refined, more polite – _college._

She tears the seal of the letter open with her fingernails. But before my older sister unfolds it, she takes a moment to plead to whoever bothers to listen; "Please . . . please . . ." like it will change the information inside, whatever it is.

And then I hear the defining moment after the reveal. _A sigh._ Tessa's shoulders slump.

"No financial aid. _Great."_

She drops the bad news back on the table like it stung her and maybe it did on the inside where nobody can see; she's pretty good at covering up, wearing a mask. The letter slides across my vision and I read the _DECLINED_ stamp in big red letters. I hear Tessa slowly climb the steps to her room. I put the decline where it belongs with the eviction notice.

On the bright side there is only two more weeks of school.

But that also means time for my older sister to get accepted into a college is slowly shrinking.

* * *

I am folded up on an old rocking chair that is settled on the porch, a book in my lap because Dad says it is good to read. He purchased the book from some library that was on the brink of closing so he could get it for less than what it was worth. I remember when he handed it to me in the barn while I was trying to get some of his "inventions" to actually do their job. _"To Kill a Mockingbird"_ the title had read as I smoothed a finger over the raised surface. My dad said it was a classic and he read it for school way back when; but when I asked him about it he told me that I would have to figure this one out on my own. That was over a month ago and I still have yet to crack open the front cover . . . I don't think he actually read it.

The sun is low when my ears pick up on faint rumbles and I glance up to see no other than Lucas' black mini cooper flying up the worn driveway. The rumbles turn into shrieks when he skids across the gravel, nearly missing where road meets grass. My dad had been complaining this morning about how Lucas wasn't coming into work today within those few, precious moments I have before I need to bolt out the door and sprint down the driveway to the awaiting bus. I think I rushed out when he was in mid-vent, but I spot my father in the small car with Lucas now, so it couldn't have been that bad.

Lucas cuts off the engine of his car and my eyes run over the white surfboard secured on the roof to what's coming next, the reason for my Dad and his work partner's reunion.

A large yet solid form of a tow truck is creeping up the driveway. Its surface was recently polished even with the dirt particles desperately trying to stick to the metal. A silver chain sprouts from the back of the tow truck's roof and gleams when the sun touches it. Attached to the chain, the truck's cargo: a bulky and rusted tractor trailer, just without its trailer.

I spring up from the rickety rocker and the book flips to the porch floor, landing on its thin pages. My legs itch to move, but my mind is elsewhere, so twisting back around, I pick up _To Kill a Mockingbird_ and set it on the now vacant chair. Dashing down the three steps that hold the structure of the house above natures core – the ground – I meet Dad and Lucas at the only actual "car" here.

"Where did you get this?" I ask, referring to the pretty-much-dead-already truck that _must_ be ours. My eyes dart between the two of them.

My dad is wearing a coat of sweat – which is typical in Texas – and he smells of old leather. "Some run-down movie theater we used to go to as kids," he replies, patting my shoulder, _"check it out."_

Dad walks forward and I go to follow, but I spot Lucas lingering behind – unusual for him. He leans on the hood of his car, arms crossed, shaking his head. I feel my face scrunch up as my eyebrows furrow.

The tow truck is still coming closer, faltering in movement now, and my dad holds up his arms, signaling whoever is driving to proceed,

"All the way!" he yells over the loud motor. I stare at the bull horns on the tow truck's grill for a moment and Dad forms his hands into fists. _Stop._

The tow truck huffs, steam blowing out as the brakes are put on. It is almost as if dragging that other truck – _our truck now_ – up here was a chore. Dust settles in the air. The engine grumbles while cooling off. Lucas sighs loudly, taking after the vehicle.

 _"A truck?"_ a voice no other than my sister's squeaks out as she rounds the decorative fencing we have and plants foot in the makeshift driveway. My body is rigid and stiff, muscles flinching, and I internally tell them to relax. She startled me; didn't hear her shoes, didn't hear the door because she always lets it close more roughly than Dad, or I, or even Lucas does. Tessa walks up to the new addition, assessing it. Her flannel – which is back as being her overshirt – flaps back in the slight breeze. "Dad, please tell me you didn't spend our money on – "

What? Junk? Dad hates that word but Lucas beats her to the chase, jumping off his car, walking forward,

"Oh no, don't worry – _he didn't._ He spent _my_ money. A hundred-and-fifty bucks of it." That would explain why Lucas is so sour about the whole subject, but he still let Dad buy it. By the looks of it, that thing is barely worth much if anything.

"As an advance on your regular paycheck – " my dad reasons while squinting under his baseball cap. Lucas goes to the fence, leaning on it, with Tessa trailing close behind.

"What regular paycheck?" he interrupts.

" – which you will get back."

I listen closer; this is all news to my ears. The man driving the working truck has since hopped out and is working on unhooking our truck. I wonder if he's listening, too.

"When?"

"Never." Tessa tosses over her shoulder. She's still walking, most likely back to the house where less of these problems exist. _"We're broke."_

"Tessa, please," Dad asks, gently, "not in front of your sister."

She stops, turns, "Like she doesn't already know?"

My head lowers. I think about the eviction notices sitting in the trashcan. Yeah, I know.

 _"I knew it."_ gasps Lucas. My gaze lifts back up. Some of his shoulder-length, curly hair falls in his face.

"Sweetheart, could you please not drive a wedge between employer and employee?" Dad is talking more sternly now, for his first warnings were not listened to, and he moves his arm in an uppercut for emphasis.

"Hold on," starts Lucas, gripping the fence, "I thought we were . . . partners?" he backtracks.

"Look, I came up short, okay? I had to buy her a prom dress and Cassie books for school." Dad is explaining. I watch him, frowning, because he's lying and that is something we aren't supposed to do around here. One book. One book, he bought me . . . and it's on the porch's rocking chair right now. Sure, he did buy Tessa a prom dress, _but still. One book that barely cut into his wallet._ He opens his arms and his sweat stains are visible, which I look away from, "You want me to deny her an education? Tessa, a prom dress?"

"Might as well . . . You denied her a prom date." Lucas completely skims over my problem because you can't fight school. Tessa points to him, agreeing. _No boys,_ that's the rule, and although guys barely talk to me, Tessa, on the other hand . . .

"No, I offered to take her and chaperone."

"Nobody wants to go to the dance with their dad. _It's weird."_

Dad looks to me for help. I glance down at my boots, shrugging and twitching my face. It is kind of weird . . .

He recovers, shaking his head, "Okay, well, that's not the issue."

"Maybe it should be." argues Tessa. I stay silent, meeting no eyes that could persuade me to lean one way or the other.

"Hey, could you two just get off my case? You know what the engine on this runs for? I can break it down, strip it for parts."

"Dad," I offer, nodding at the truck, "it doesn't look like there are many parts left."

And even from looking back here, where the lighting isn't all that great, I know I'm right. The truck has no trailer, making it not whole. Its color is dull and covered in rust, and the thing looks sad, so very sad . . . Falling apart at the seams.

". . . shorts are shrinking by the second, okay?" I catch the tail-end of my dad's statement. Immediately, I look down to realize I'm not even wearing shorts but rather jeans. "Cold water, air dry – please. Or wear pants like your sister."

Rolling her eyes, Tessa storms back inside; this time, me hearing the front door ending its journey. I tend to wear jeans, like now in the early days of May, because I simply prefer not getting feasted on by bugs . . . and my body temperature runs cold, too, sometimes. Dad and I walk back to the truck. He talks to the guy that towed the vehicle here while I run my forefinger through the plains of a symbol on the front bumper. When the man leaves in his nice truck that we could only dream of, I relieve my focus from the truck, still keeping my hand on the only place that isn't rusted, _that symbol,_

"You know, this isn't that bad." I tell my dad, the only guardian I have left. "It could be worse."

And he smiles a smile that after aging I could see right through to know that we are no different than the sad truck missing its trailer.

* * *

 **Yes, I am aware that for a first chapter this is a long one. Let me know what you guys think, and I will consider whether or not to continue this journey. Thanks. :)**

 **~ Rainy**


	2. Chapter 2: Tatemae

***I do not own Transformers. It belongs to its rightful owner.***

* * *

 _"Our questions ricochet_

 _Like broken satellites;_

 _How our bodies, born to heal,_

 _Become so prone to die."_

 _~ Sleeping at Last: Mars_

* * *

Chapter 2: Tatemae

 _\- (noun) what a person pretends to believe; the behavior and opinions one must display to satisfy society's demands._

I've always wondered if our barn was unhappy because it does not have the job it was built for. The structure sits off a ways from the house, in an area that the sun seems to be afraid to touch. I know barns don't feel, but sometimes when I catch a glimpse of it from my bedroom window, I get it at just a certain time, and the form that has existed long before me appears to be sinking further into the ground. And I have that feeling sometimes – that gut-wrenching feeling which eats me up inside and makes me wish that the land beneath me would rise up and swallow me whole.

Our barn is full of metal, unfortunate events . . . and the truck becomes parked in the midst of it all.

Dad is running around what the barn holds, moving his mini inventions here and there to make room for his new findings. His voice comes out in rushed volumes of air, like it does when there's a lot going on, when something's on his mind.

I pick up on bits and pieces of a sentence, " – goes by the circuit boards – "

Lucas sighs a little too loudly and I fight the urge to roll my eyes.

And then: " – Zeiss lenses over there – "

I'm not sure what any of the terms and gadgets mean, but they're important to my dad so I let it go. Dad has many studio lights in the barn and within them; I can see dust particles floating through the empty space. I wave my hand into a cluster, but they instead avoid the limb and squirm around my intrusion. I can't feel them, don't know if they're hurting me or not. I'm near the truck and I watch as some sweep across rays of light filtering in, and land on the front bumper. Stepping forward, I cross the distance between the vehicle and me. I swipe off the dirt that marks age. The truck still looks sad and lonely. But I understand. It's hard not to feel alone in a group of strangers, even if something always fills the air. My thumb traces the polished symbol.

I catch my dad when he brushes past, a minor gust of wind hitting my back, "What do you think this is?" I ask, eyeing the protruding silver laid against a rough, peeling paint job.

Dad looks from under the crown of his baseball cap, but he doesn't really _look._ "I don't know, sweetie," he breathes out, quickly, and then his eyes are elsewhere, "Probably just some – " He stops to reach across a table to my right for his glasses, his tone in voice changing, "some off-brand logo."

 _"Yeah . . ."_ I mutter low enough that I'm sure he can't hear. My legs push me away from the truck.

Dad is examining a part of some run-down machine like it's a telescope when my sister breaks through into the small clearing set up in the back of the barn. Tessa holds a mound of folded up white in one hand; the remains of the mail from when I _oh-so-brutally_ slid it across the kitchen table –

"Dad, _please,"_ she gains his attention with a soft tone and he lowers the object in grasp. "You can't keep spending money on _junk_ just so you can turn it into different _junk."_ I flinch at the infamous word – junk – that my older sister just loves to use. Dad drops the cone-like item to his workbench and it rolls across the surface for a few seconds before stopping and wiggling. With a knuckle, he pushes his glasses up and off the bridge of his nose. Our father is itching to say something about Tessa's comment; I know it well by his posture and fidgeting hands, and she does, too. Tessa likes to push buttons sometimes because she can, because she's older, because she can apparently get away with it . . . I'm guilty as charged as well, but my luck with Dad is not as long lasting.

But I still take opportunities when given, "Wow _. . ._ You used it twice." I state, pulling my teeth back into a painful smile. "That's like a second offense."

"You don't even know what you're talking about – " she bites back.

"At least I can follow the rules."

Tessa spins around. Her glare is enough to kill if possible, pointing daggers, and I just give her a nice, big smile that they always ask for on school picture days – even though I do the opposite on purpose.

"Cassie, stop egging your sister on." scolds Dad, finally finding his voice. I back down. "And Tessa – you know the rules – we do not use the _"J"_ word in here." He points to something out of eyesight, and we turn so we can really take his words in – put two and two together. "That is a Super Simplex theater projector, it's very rare." Dad offers up some of his other inventions that never quite made the cut, and my brown eyes follow his voice and gestures. "Simply ahead of their time." is his excuse, different from the last one, and then something else is in his hands, turning around, switching between limbs. My dad has always had a fast mind. Tessa was the one who had to make him slow down but when he's _here_ , in his element, it picks right back up again. Like a drum – _BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM._ He travels fast so he doesn't have to be stuck in our stroke of bad luck: the lovers that went wrong, machines and structures that can't do their jobs and just _be_ , all of those crumpled pieces of paper in the garbage, and the neat notices that Tessa has now, the ones that are supposed to catch your attention.

Dad's too fast to see anything of that. It is how we live. How he keeps living.

"Yeah, like the alleged _Guard-Dawg."_ announces Lucas, coming from the back room, and weaving around shelves and whatever other obstacles this barn has to give. At the sound of the name I never call him, the dog – which is sitting on the table after falling over earlier – moves its ears. And then here comes the supposedly frightening bark, the greeting everyone else but me gets. My dad tells Lucas that he's making the dog upset while pointing to the thrashing creature. I touch the dog's head. He stops. _THUMP_ goes his tail.

Holding the remote to the invention, Lucas asks if the Butler-Bot or whatever works. It's supposed to get beer from our mini-fridge in the barn and bring it to you. Tessa yells that it doesn't work. Dad overrides her statement and claims it does.

He points to our sitting area ten or so feet from the fridge, "Go back there and lay on the recliner, and just wait for a cold one." My older sister pushes off the workbench we've been standing around, rolling her eyes and softly sighing. The mini-fridge's door swings robotically open by itself as Lucas hits our punching bag; it connects with a solid object and tools clatter to the floor. Dad warns him to stop breaking stuff and I join Lucas because in that moment, my dad breaks away and Tessa starts handing out the bills to him.

"It's a lot easier to break something than to fix it." I comment, eyes on Lucas.

He plops into the recliner, ignoring me, and stretching out. "Pssh . . ."

Moving around and stepping over stuff, I fall back into my own chair. My back connects with something softer and lighter than the chair – one of my flannels is draped over the back of it. Grabbing the article of clothing, I take a whiff of the material, set it in my lap; it still smells decent. I watch as the fridge door comes to a close and the Butler-Bot – or mechanical, trashcan-looking-thing - begins its journey.

Lucas pats his lap. "Come on, come on . . ." The Butler-Bot inches closer and closer by the second. "Bring Daddy the alcohol. Come on!" he encourages the machine like it's a dog, but an actually real dog and not the should-have-been one sitting on the table.

"Or you could just get it yourself." I suggest. "Be a lot quicker – "

"Shut up, Cassie." He smiles and I know he's joking. "You see, this here is every man's dream."

"Yeah, it's really somethin' special, isn't it?"

Lucas goes to say something snarky back but a device clatters to the ground, breaking. I glance at Tessa, it came from her.

"What's the estimated time of arrival usually average?" Lucas questions loud enough to be heard over my dad and sister's hushed talking at her breakage. And that is when the Butler-Bot decides it has had enough and it is tired, because it comes to a halt and the top lifts up, presenting a beer. "Wait – so it just brings the beer near you? That's the trick?"

My dad stops what he's doing on our business computer, glancing over his shoulder at us, "It's got a couple of kinks, man."

 _"Yeah."_

Snorting, I stand up and tie the flannel around my waist. Heading over to the Butler-Bot, I take the beer, and drop it into Lucas' awaiting arms. "Told ya it was somethin' special," He doesn't say anything.

"Dad, don't you think some things should never be invented?" Tessa questions as I advance forward, getting closer to the exit.

He drops the mail he'd only been looking at for a total of ten seconds, pushes off the wheelie chair that's fun to roll around in when Lucas spins and pushes me, and climbs to his feet. "No, I don't – that's backwards thinking." I reach the barn doors just in time to see a familiar car with big, flashy stickers on the sides pull up beside our house. I release heavy air from my lungs, leaning on the old doors and crossing my arms. "This is a temple of technology. You guys are standing in a holy place."

"So, if this place isn't historic yet," I flick my head to the outdoors and some strands of dirty-blonde fall into my face. "why did we start tours?"

I dash out of the barn, the soles of my boots connecting with flattened grass. These visits never end well, so I'm trying to at least have a good start as my legs hit rough and uneven terrain, and I jog to the three figures emerging from the car. They must not see me yet from the barn's shield made out of shade because the laughing begins. There is a man and a woman – a couple – and they're dressed nice for the occasion, even though the occasion is a false deal on a farm. The main, dark-skinned real estate lady takes in our land, lifting her arms, praising this so called "holy place",

"Whaddya think?" she asks the couple, cheerfully, "Why don't you look at all of this? This could be yours! What about this land?!"

But she stops there because I'm spotted. I approach, breathlessly, and the three of them stare at me like I'm _wrong,_ like I shouldn't be here. _But I live here._ I never bothered to learn the real estate lady's name but it is on the side door of the car; I search for the key word, finding it,

"Miss McGatlin," I greet, "this place – it – it's not for sale." I make sure to get a glance at the two customers during this time. They look confused or – or upset. _Good._ Because that's exactly how I would feel if they ever dared taking my home.

Miss McGatlin removes her sunglasses to speak with me, which is supposed to be a polite gesture – so I've heard. She is dressed in all purple, the usual, and I merely assume that this is not only her favorite color, but the only one she knows. Besides, she took in my dull attire like she just saw a ghost. Dad likes to call her a Purple People Eater; sometimes when she's in earshot, and most of the time not. I have to bite back both a smile and laugh at the thought.

"Honey, you get your daddy to pay some bills, and then we'll talk." Miss McGatlin tells me. "Right now, I'm jus' doin' my job." She turns to the other two, reframing back to her original plan and ignoring a thirteen-year-old girl who just wanted to do something right for once. _Me._ "Isn't this incredible? I knew you'd like it." she says to her customers.

"No," I speak up, moving closer. "It's having human decency to recognize that people go through hard times!"

This shuts her up real good. Miss McGatlin gives me the "Tessa look" that serves as a warning to what's coming, but just like Tessa – I'm not scared of her. She straightens her spine.

"Little girl – "

 _"Hey, you!"_ Whirling around, I observe my dad bolting out of the barn with a wooden baseball bat. He's saving me, once again, from the troubles of the world. Too bad he doesn't know that I'm the one to take down eviction notices and too bad he thinks I don't read the mail sometimes even when it's my job to retrieve it. "Hey! I own this house! It's not for sale!"

They already know that. Tessa and Lucas stroll out of the barn after Dad and taking an arm, he moves me away from the frontlines so I fade away into the background with other familiar faces.

"Six months late on payments, Mr. Yeager." Miss McGatlin reminds Dad, loudly, like she wants the whole world to know just how bad we are off. And then she points to where our property line fizzles out. "And I see you stealin' power at the pole." So all of our electricity that runs within the soil under our feet, it's not really ours, just . . . _borrowed._ I hate when things aren't actually yours and in your possession because then people can take it from you. I squint in the sun that has settled on the horizon as the end of the day draws near and I stare down the woman in purple. People will try and take what you have anyways, borrowed or not.

"Hey, that's not your concern." I hear Dad roughly inform Miss McGatlin. He is not being mean; his tone simply carries a pointed edge. I walk on until my fingertips slide across the form of Lucas' car. After re-knotting the flannel around my waist, I hop up on the mini cooper's hood; the vehicle bouncing a little from my arrival, but not too much. Lucas sits at the picnic bench under one of our big oak trees. He still has the beer I delivered to him and many other empty bottles litter the surface of the picnic bench, most likely his as well. Tessa wanders forward a couple feet but she remains standing, nonetheless.

My dad talks to the wannabe-buyers about tours of the property, and everything is steady and collected for a moment, until the yard erupts into chaos.

Dad raises his bat, threatening, "I'll show you three other buyers I got buried out back, then I'll crack your head open like an egg!" I tuck myself further up on the car's hood. The three of them are backing up to their own vehicle as my dad advances. There is a chorus of shouting different words and phrases.

" – whoa! Whoa – "

" – stay back! He's crazy – "

I find and latch onto my father's voice through the noise, "I told you to not come back here anymore! My little girl told you we're not sellin' – "

"Your little girl has no respect!" yells Purple People Eater, and that's when I decide I'm never going to remember her name or ever use it again.

Dad folds his knees in, scoffing, _"Really?_ 'Cause last time I checked, she had more class in her little finger than you ever will!"

Purple People Eater opens her car door – the driver door – and her comrades scurry into empty seats marked by doors they never bothered to close. "I will have my brother come back and beat your ass! Don't you start with me! And – "

"Why don't you do it yourself?!"

She swings into the seat, shoving her purse inside. "And I'll bring the police when I come, too! My brother ain't no joke!"

Dad leans over the front of the car. The baseball is still in his hands if needed. He jabs a finger at the dirty windshield. "Who? _Jerry?!_ You bring his big ass up here, he's gonna be huffin' and puffin' before he can squeeze out of that car!" The car door slams, sounding like nothing compared to the rest of the scene. I snort loudly enough from Dad's words that it hurts my nostrils a bit. Her car starts with a groaning rumble. "You back out on my grass, you're gonna be in big trouble!" my dad warns, despite the fact Lucas is always tearing through here. The car starts rolling backwards. "You tell Jerry to come see me; I'll give him some pecan pie!"

And with those words, the small car's tires snap to the right and it flies straight into our front lawn. Dad chases down the vehicle, chucking the baseball bat in his wake. It bounces off the back bumper with clunk and then I can only watch while that freaking lady drives her ugly car right through our electric fence and into the wheat field. I scrunch my face up from the dust and hop off of Lucas' black mini cooper. My dad throws his arms up, groaning, "She smashed through the fence?!"

"Congratulations, Lucas," I say once I'm close enough. "We've found a worse driver than you."

He's sitting on the table's top amongst his friends: the beer bottles. _"Funny."_

I climb up on the picnic bench and take a clean spot next to him. "Might have to step your game up, though; if you want to be back in the lead . . ."

Lucas shakes his head, turns to my dad as he pivots around. "Cade, relax. You're going to have an aortic infarction."

"What is that?" he asks in passing.

"I think it's a, uh, brain heart attack."

"Yeah. I've had one already."

I'm not quite sure Lucas' definition of the phrase is correct, but I'm off the picnic bench and heading to my sister with Dad, so it doesn't really matter.

Tessa's hands are on her hips when we make it to her. "So, we're stealing power now?"

"No, we're borrowin' it from the neighbors."

 _"Great. That's awesome."_ There is a brief pause between the three of us, a family pause. My older sister sighs, throwing her posture back. "Once I graduate and I'm gone, who's gonna take care of you?" Tessa is graduating in about a month and I'll be moving up to eighth grade. Summer is approaching fast, and, for the first time, I don't know if I'm ready for it.

"I'll be here." I speak up.

"Yeah, but not _here_ here."

And she might be right . . . Dad and I are too alike for our own good.

Dad turns to her. "Oh, and you take care of me?"

Tessa nods, blinking back tears, which I am not even sure of their arrival in the first place. I don't cry much anymore.

"Who taught you two how to solder a circuit?" questions our dad. I swallow. "Or write a program? Or French braid each other's hair? Or throw a spiral for gym class? _Me._ That's what I do. And I'll keep teaching Cassie stuff even when you're not here." He's right, he did teach me all of those elements, but I'm not sure I remember. It's easy for things to get lost in a vast space of memories.

"Who taught you how to cook for us without using ketchup? Or balance your checkbook? Or helped you with Cassie all of the time?" She looks away for a second and at this point Lucas has joined the conversation. Watching. "Who . . . always has to be the grownup around here?"

"Alright, you got a point, okay?" Dad replies, sincere and honest as ever. He looks to me for a split second. "And she and I both know that." I agree with a few, quick nods to my sister. "But that means we're a great team, all three of us. And I know it's been sucky around here lately, but we're gonna be fine, sweetie. You just gotta keep believin', okay?"

 _Okay._

"I mean, that's what great inventors do."

 _Believing is how we keep going._

"I promise you, one day, I'm gonna build something that matters."

* * *

By dinnertime, the day is showing its age. The sky is a mixture of pinks, oranges, and yellows all running into one another; the clouds are breaking waves. I sit at the table alone while Tessa prepares Dad's meal to be taken down to his workshop: the barn lacking purpose. I poke at my peas with a fork until Tessa turns around with the food and then I stab one, plopping it into my mouth.

"Tessa?" I call before she is out of sight, teetering on being gone. My fork swirls my mashed potatoes around to give my hands something to do. "Do you believe Dad? That he'll invent something good and then everything will go away, and it'll be okay again?"

My sister comes back in and she's trying for a smile, but I see right through her mask. She sets the tray on the table, sighing, "I don't know . . . I just – I know . . . I know something in this whole thing has to matter. Feels like they shoulda come and taken everything by now – "

I look down at my plate but I'm not really focused on it. I can feel myself still nudging bits and pieces of my food around. "Sorry if I'm a brat."

My eyes don't return to her but I hear her shift, can sense the pressure of the air lessening its hold some. "Me too."

I snort and smile to myself. Tessa picks up the tray again with Dad's food and says, "Kelsey called and wants to go out driving. I'm gonna see if he'll let me go 'cause it's Friday and all."

"Oh . . ." I draw out the single word. "Is Shane going to be there?"

Tessa's eyes widen. Her arms drop down a bit, and she has to steady the tray so nothing falls off. She looks around cautiously before speaking. _"Cassie!"_ hisses Tessa. "You don't talk about him, not even a word, and I won't mention to Dad how I just happened to be home when the school called about your detention."

Yeah, I know. That's the deal.

"It wasn't even my fault." I protest, stabbing another pea. That kid started it.

"Yeah, have fun telling Dad that. And, no – _he_ won't be there."

I shrug. "You really think Dad's going to let you go, though? He wouldn't even let me go to a concert with parent supervision."

She starts walking, her footsteps changing in tone when her feet transition from the tile kitchen floor onto the hardwood hallway. "It was on a school night, Cassie; not to mention three hours away." Her hand hovers over the front screen door's handle. "And, please, stop playing with your food – I already have to be on Dad so he'll eat."

The door clicks closed and I decide against telling her it was going to be the only time the band would be in Texas. I hear Tessa's footsteps thud down the three front steps before disappearing when she hits grass. Sighing, I roll my eyes, but listen to her anyways because she's my older sister and her job is to worry.

We've all got jobs to do.

Mine is to believe.

* * *

Dad ends up letting Tessa go with her friends and dark has just about taken over the sky when I hear him on the porch. Before his arrival, I was lying on my back in my bed. My radio hummed some tune of a song I didn't have enough mind to pay attention to and To Kill a Mockingbird rotated in my hands as I turned it over and over. I put the book on my stomach when my ears picked up on his familiar footfalls, and then I sat up, To Kill a Mockingbird sliding and flopping across my mattress. The volume of my radio is turned down low now, but I can pick apart some words of whatever song is playing:

 _"I don't even know if I believe_

 _Everything you're trying to say to me."_

I recognize the voice behind the microphone as Mumford and Sons, and I rise from my bed, heading to the radio to turn it off.

 _"So open up my eyes_

 _And tell me I'm alive._

 _This is never gonna go our way_

 _If I'm gonna have to guess what's on your mind."_

 _Click._ I'm left in silence.

Down the stairs and around the bend, I find Dad leaning over the railing and gazing out into empty space. The crickets chirp loudly and nightlights we strung up in trees as kids to guide our way home shine. I stay behind the screen door, silent, and listen for once. There is not much downtime for Dad left and I rarely find him like this. Like this, he's human, like this I know him, and like this I love him.

"Best thing that ever happened, Emily," he whispers softly to the sky. And I know who he's talking to, the family member I never met. _Mom –_ "They're the best thing that ever happened." I blink and bite down on my lip. It's always been hard to think about _her_ . . . and I don't talk about it either. My existence stopped hers. "You'd be proud. _I am."_

 _I believe you, Dad._

* * *

 **Mumford and Sons is the ruler of my playlist.**

 **~ Rainy**


	3. Chapter 3: Orphic

***I do not own Transformers. It belongs to its rightful owner.***

* * *

 _"We were full of life,_

 _We could barely hold it in._

 _We were amateurs at war,_

 _Strangers to suffering."_

 _~ Sleeping at Last: Mars_

* * *

Chapter 3: Orphic

 _\- (adjective) mysterious and entrancing; beyond ordinary understanding._

My favorite version of the earth is what remains in the night. People are sleeping; things are still. Our farm doesn't have to worry about getting taken away, at least until tomorrow – or maybe that's just me. On school nights, my thoughts drift away as soon as my back connects with the mattress. Tired is my brain from being overwhelmed with lectures by different teachers; they tell us how they "think" the world is supposed to turn through multiple subjects. Truth is, though, how many people have been outside our realm to see it? Surely, they're not the ones standing in front of my class; most of them are still out there. Maybe they don't want to come back.

There are no distractions at night to keep me up, anyway. No boys like Tessa, no friends that mean more than those I hang around with at school because I'm fine with it, the whole talking thing. I'll speak to anyone; it is just getting anything back from them that is the problem. But I'm okay with it. _Right? Yeah._

It is a Friday night tonight. No school will greet me with first light tomorrow, so these hours of darkness do not matter as much. Still, I wish I could make them count somehow . . . tonight's distraction is the barn. The barn itself still looks the same when I walk to my window and eye it through the moonlight. It's still upset about its job, but not as sad as the truck Dad is working on inside it – never – _My dad._ He's the reason. Some of our barn burst up into flames earlier. I ran down without grabbing anything and could have stepped in something because I wasn't wearing shoes, but it didn't matter. The barn doors were blowing in a bit of wind as I had approached, kicking and screaming. The fire was out when I got in, Dad was playing it off. He wanted me to go back to the house, I said no because the smoke was still fresh – he didn't say anything. Dad got upset because the realization dawned that nothing – the truck – might not be capable of turning into _something._

I thought it was its job to be nothing.

I stayed wrapped in the barn for some minutes I never counted. He kept working; always got to finish what he starts. And then I left because boredom overtook me, but my dad already knew that – it's why he didn't say anything.

Sleep refuses to come to me now. Even after the fire was smothered and it was supposed to take our fear and doubts with it. Even after I heard the click of a door and my sister's shoes on the hardware.

Only when the front door smacks roughly into its own structure because he let it come back on its own instead of slowly guiding it like you're supposed to can I settle. I hear my father speaking with Tessa. The both of them are by the staircase, judging by the way their voices carry. She asks him if he ate or took any break at all, which he ignores, and instead flips the conversation to her. It's late for her to come home, he claims. I glance at the digital clock perched on my bedside table. _10:17._ Not that bad.

But after that, after all of the usual grown-up talk passes within them, comes the real reason Dad came back to the house. Not because he knew I wasn't sleeping. Not because Tessa arrived home.

 _The truck._

Because the truck might matter.

* * *

My bare toes wiggle across the shingles of the house. The surface is warm, but not too warm – _yet._ The texture to the roof carries a scratching sensation that gnaws at me inside, but I still stay. It's morning. Dad's been up since first light, not that he slept much because he reads when he is stressed or the gears in his head start spinning too fast, blurring everything. Tessa is in the bathroom getting ready. I can hear her radio going from my open window, curtains rippling in the breeze. To Kill a Mockingbird sits on the windowsill so still I almost forget about it.

A part of me wants to read the book because it was a gift from Dad, and I should do it for him. But in all honesty, I don't read for fun. I barely even read the books we are required to in school; finish them late, skim through chapters, bull-crap the essay to receive a solid C. At least I read the important parts, counts for something. My dad is too busy to be on me about that, Tessa has always got some big project to do because she's old and stuff, so she is mostly preoccupied. I do my homework here and there and have average grades. What's so bad about it?

I'm the girl that talks too much and kind of cares about school.

A hand reaches out where the pane of glass should be from my open window. I jump, though I try hard to hide it. My sister is standing in the gap of free air and holding To Kill a Mockingbird. I realize the house has since gone silent and her pop tunes are absent. Dad tells us that we were bred country lovers and though at times we look the part, neither of us are fond of the genre. But I don't really like pop music either.

Tessa reads through the first page, smiles, and then hands the book out on the roof to me.

"Quit being creepy and get out of my room," I tell my older sister, half-heartedly. She must have saw me out here when she walked past because my room is the first door in the hall, while hers and the bathroom are further down; and she came here to chew me out about the dangers of being on the roof.

"Forgot Dad gave that to you," she says, ignoring my words. "I read it in the tenth grade."

"Is it worth readin'?"

"It's a good book, _yeah – "_ She leans out the windowsill, pointing at the cover. "But it does have killing in the title, so I don't know. Might want to wait on that . . ."

I roll my eyes. She's just being stupid now.

Tessa goes on, "Not that it really matters, though, because you're killing yourself being out there."

I go silent. Body stills. I prepare myself for the lecture about falling but it never comes. Instead, a surfboard pops up over the horizon. It's attached to the roof of no other than Lucas' zippy, little car speeding up the rocky driveway. I guess he didn't feel like removing the surfboard from his beach trip yesterday. He applies the brakes before the vehicle is ready and it slides partially into our front yard, almost ramming the fence.

The car door swings open, slams shut. Lucas rounds the front of his car. _"Where is he?" Dad._

"I don't know." huffs my sister, slightly annoyed but I'm not quite sure why. I stand, steady myself by griping onto the gutter.

"He's probably in the barn." I inform Lucas.

Tessa exits my room as I jump back in. The dog is barking so Lucas must be on the porch. Slipping on my converse sneakers, I rush down the stairs to push through the screen door with my sister.

Lucas is holding something he's not supposed to, a piece of paper, and I know what it is right away. I try to snatch it from him and hide it because no one is supposed to know, no one but me. He thinks I am being childish so he refuses to release the paper, tells me to _quit it._ Lucas directs his attention to my older sister.

"Tess, I'm basically you and your sister's uncle. _Su casa es mi casa."_ He holds up the paper, the EVICTION NOTICE as it shouts and yells at us how much we screwed up. "And we're going to lose the _casa."_

I swallow down everything I want to; hold back from spilling all of the secrets hidden in the trash. I was – I was trying to wait until something went right.

I swallow my pride.

* * *

"Dad!" calls Tessa while we jog across the grass towards the closed barn doors. I faintly hear him yell back that he's coming. When the three of us slow to a walk in front of the barn, I listen to tools clattering on the inside. I try to not look at the paper in Lucas' grasp too hard because it makes me angry to. The notices usually never come this early, they must have gotten desperate. Point being, on a good day, I would have said something about now, had a good remark towards the way Lucas drove in here.

But now I just sit in silence.

"Are you working with lasers?" Tessa questions before Dad appears, having heard all of the noise coming from within our barn. "If so, I'm not coming in."

One of the barn door's opens at that exact moment, nearly missing us. I want to almost be startled by it, but I'm not – not quite. My dad stands before everyone. His hand still remains coiled on the door handle, adding weight. His words aren't with Tessa's question, and his words aren't with why we even needed him, came down here while he was deep in that brain of his,

"You guys have never seen a truck like this before." His words, in fact, are on our truck's status and they come flowing out fast. I tilt my head to the side to begin thinking, so I barely feel him usher Tessa and I through the door. I shake it off. I hear my Dad tell Lucas as he gets him inside, "Lock that door,"

"It doesn't have a lock . . ."

And it never did have one, which is why I don't understand this whole situation. We have never took that type of precaution before because the barn doors are, more often than not, found open, mostly out of habit.

"Cassie – Cassie! C'mere and look at this!" Dad brings me over, maybe because he knows I might care more since I kill time in here. "Look! Look at the hole in the radiator. Look at the size of it!"

The radiator is sitting on a side-table, having since been removed from the bulky, old truck. A circular hole that goes straight through expands across the surface. It is about the size of a basketball and my dad holds his head up to it so he can peer through for emphasis. I reach out a forefinger to prod at the flaw. The edges are crumpled on each other and fall in even more with pressure. Still warm, too.

My dad points at me and I think he is going to tell me I shouldn't have touched it, but instead he is gesturing at the radiator itself and talking to Lucas, all excited, "Something blew a hole in it!"

"Yeah, so?" Lucas drags his feet lazily when he comes forward. My sister stays back.

Dad begins scaling the ladder to get up where he was working before. "It's not normal steel."

 _Wait._ I poke my head around the radiator so I can see my father better. "It's a truck. How can it not have normal steel?"

"I don't know . . . It – it's like it has armor or something."

"What – like military?" asks Lucas.

"Yeah, yeah – " Dad walks steadily walks across a plank to get to where he has more tools, another work place. "The shrapnel in the engine, it ripped all of the connections apart." He turns to the trio of us. "And watch – and this took some Cade genius. You are going to love this."

He busies himself with something. I look at Lucas who tries to hold the big, bold letters of EVICTION NOTICE up for all to see. My dad won't notice and even if he does he'll just blow it off because this here is supposed to be a solution; in his eyes, there is always one. And Lucas knows this, so he flicks it down, yet still holding it, sighs.

Dad holds up the cables we use to jumpstart our own truck sometimes when it doesn't feel like getting up in the morning. "When I hook this back to a working battery . . ."

The insides of the truck explode with light and sparks as soon as Dad attaches the plugs. I jump back some, as do the others.

But it is when the thing starts talking that I really start moving back.

 _"Calling all . . ."_ The voice trails off. Then it's back: _"Calling all Autobots."_

Oh – oh no –

Dad disconnects. It goes quiet.

And then he's saying, "I don't think it's a truck at all. I think we just found a Transformer."

 _Oh no, no, no, no, no, no . . ._

My eyes get all wide, I feel it, and my mouth drops a bit. I stumble over myself and almost fall, yet I catch myself on a table. Lucas drops the notice and it sails around the room before settling on the ground. He exclaims something I don't hear because I'm sprinting to the door, smacking into the closed wood, and shoving it open in a clumsy way that is not me.

Once outside, I make a beeline to a sheltered, open stall that would hold animals. I turn in circles while kicking at straw and sawdust covering the earth here. Tessa and Lucas talk loudly for once, so I can listen, but I don't. I feel Dad's presence closing in but it doesn't matter.

 _885-_

No, that's not it.

 _855-_

Yes.

 _855- . . . 855-_

What comes after that? What comes after that?! How can I not remember –

"Dad, are you outta your mind?!" My sister's voice brings me back, for she's in this stall with me now, as is Lucas. Dad is standing by the open, barn doors. Tessa strides towards him, getting down low for a second, wildly pointing to the barn as her long blonde hair goes every-which-way. She is talking in hushes, like the alien-robot-thing in there can hear us. Can it? I don't know how technical advanced they were, or are. "You need to get that thing out of here!"

Our dad holds out his arms in his defense. "You don't have to worry; I've been in there workin' all night. I'm fine."

I move in. "But what if – what if like you just activated something when you did that and made it talk? What if – "

"No, Cassie, it's not going to come alive . . ."

Lucas gets in my dad's face, scooting me back some. "You know what? That's not a truck, okay? You're right." His scraggly hair falls in his face when he stomps the ground. _"It's an alien killing machine!"_ He falls away. "Jesus . . ."

"Dude," Dad starts, not sounding very serious, "It's DOA. It's been recalled, totaled, _done."_

"So, listen . . . there's a number that you call – you're supposed to call the government."

Yes, yes, _I know . . ._ Just can't think of it.

 _855-_

 _855-3 . . ._ Three! The next number is a three!

Oh, I got it.

 _855-363-_

But no matter how hard I think, I am a lost cause with the final four digits.

 _Dammit._

Lucas goes on saying how much money we could what – win? How much money we could win if we turned the truck in, called the number if I could remember it. $25,000. That's a lot. More than what we're getting by on about now. Tessa is agreeing and then he states if we take down the thing like a wild animal then we could get $100,000. Dad says the commercial didn't say that, he saw it. Also, our truck isn't exactly running away right now. According to Lucas, Greg wouldn't lie to him. _Who's Greg?_

"Look," I hear Dad begin as I get back into the conversation, "if that's a Transformer there from the Battle of Chicago, I need to know how it works." Some things shouldn't be tampered with, Dad; some things should be left alone. If it really is an alien from a faraway galaxy, we're never going to know how it truly works. It's not man-made. "I'm an inventor! This could be a game changer for me! If I can apply that technology to my inventions, we'd never have to worry about money again!"

He's happy about this, but I don't know if it is worth it.

My older sister crosses her arms and nods her head, tight-lipped, "I've heard that before . . ."

I look from my dad to the open barn doors. We keep falling in deeper and deeper, and I'm not supposed to think about money because I am a kid – I am thirteen. I think about what Dad wants, but then I think about the eviction notice on the ground . . . the billboard with the forgotten phone number by the rail-trail, which you pass by to get here.

And lastly, I think about that sad, broken alien sitting in our barn.

* * *

"Twenty-five grand! It pays for my college, it pays for the house." Tessa's friendly reminder comes when she, Lucas, and I enter the barn after Dad. He is already back up there with the truck. I have never minded his inventions before; while my sister never took quite a liking to them, I stuck around and watched. This time, however, it is different by a long shot. I am not one for authority and the whole works, but if this thing is a bad one, because that is what I heard is left, none of us should stick around to discover the truth.

Lucas steps forward and I take in his appearance since I didn't when he first arrived. Things blew past in a rush then. He's wearing beach clothes, flip-flops; an unzipped, light jacket is thrown over his shoulders – the usual. "Besides," he says, looking up at my dad whose back is towards us, hunched over, "you used my money to buy the truck, right? So, technically, that's my truck. Don't you think?"

And, no, Lucas, no – That's not what my dad "thinks". I know it because right away, his body language changes, back stiffens – BOOM. He turns and swings under the railing; all the while the pieces holding it together shake and hit one another. His boots hit the ground with a thud; dust rises from the barn's floor.

He stares Lucas down. "You also signed a contract regarding all research lab I.P.."

I don't remember a contract. But that was years ago when they first started, and had hope that something worth good money would come out of it. Now, everything looking at me in this barn sends me a wave of uneasiness.

 _"Research lab?"_ mutters Lucas to himself, not finishing the question, searching for the memory instead. I can still hear him because he's only to my right. "It's a barn, dude."

My dad stalks closer. He points in Lucas' face, who backs up. "You signed it and now you're competing." They keep going, their bodies moving back to the closed doors. Sunshine streams in through the cracks. "Any idea of yours is mine. Any thought you have, I own it!" His eyes are big and wide and I don't like it. "So basically, _I own you."_

No. That's not how this works. Not how any of this works.

And my father, Cade, he _knows this._

So I approach him, fully aware of how it might not even be the time, or I am a kid, but this is me. This is how I was wired.

I step in front of Dad's field of vision, saying, "Dad, stop. That's BS."

He gives me a _look_ and I already know what he's going to say before he says it. "Cassie – "

"I didn't cuss!" I yell. Then, realizing the volume of my voice, I lower it, _"I didn't."_

"Anyways," Lucas starts, catching our attention. He looks lost in thought, like he's caught up on something. "I don't think you can own someone. That was, like, a while ago . . . even in Texas."

I scrunch my face up, shaking my head, "Oh my God, Lucas!"

"What? It's the truth."

My dad puts on his apron and grabs his wielding mask, glancing at his friend in the process, "Alright. Bring the torch over and help me with the pulley arm."

Lucas groans. My shoulders sink as I sigh at him.

"I think the shrapnel took out its power core." says Dad. "Oh – and Tessa, Cassie?" He picks up a hammer. "You see this?"

CLANK! Goes the hammer against the metal of whatever that truck is. I flinch.

Tessa jumps, balling her hands into fists. _"Shit . . ."_ she swears, but no one but me hears it over the sound of the banging.

Our dad straightens. He holds out his arms. "Would an alien killing machine let me do that?"

Probably not. But what do we really know?

"Look, I'll make the call, we'll get the money. Just first let me see if I'm right. You two want to hide in the house?" Tessa nods frantically. I shrug. _I guess._ "Go ahead."

Snagging one of my wrists in passing, Tessa yanks me out of our barn without giving me the chance to break away because I hate when people touch my wrists. We make it halfway across the yard, heading towards the house, before I manage to regain my arm back. I stop and my older sister does, too. She looks back at me.

"It'll get them first." I say.

She pulls me in a few more steps before I stop for good. Her head is shaking.

"I can't believe any of you . . ." is what I take from her murmurs before she sprints for the front door, knowing full well arguing is pointless and tiring. She'll pull, I'll pull back. Then I will fall to the ground of no intent of getting back up again. My sister will leave. Surely, I would follow in a few minutes as I will now, but either way, same endings . . . just different beginnings.

I hear the screen door slam and swing around to face the barn. It's in the sun for once, looking somewhat happy. I guess I do not know it at all. My fingers find the knot in the red-and-black flannel tied around my waist. Shoving my arms in the sleeves, I pull the garment onto my shoulders.

Suddenly, I start thinking that the barn wasn't finally content after all because a lot of banging, a lot of sound is bouncing out of the structure. _Yelling._ My dad – I think – I think Lucas is, too. My weight shifts slightly forward.

But then something tears through the gap in the barn doors, and it is coming fast, coming for me. I can't see much of the object to tell, but I am also falling and rolling out of its way before I can think at all. Landing on my back, I struggle to regain being able to breathe as the thing soars over my head in an ear piercing ZOOM! I feel like my insides are caving in on themselves. My lungs heave. I roll to my right side and cough away the smoke that whatever just came out of the barn left behind.

 _My sister is screaming._

There is nothing I can but curl into myself, and watch our porch-swing, which is moving on its own, as my heartbeat slows to normal.

The front door looks crooked from the angle I am laying, but my older sister breaks through it anyways. I get up, slowly, and I can feel my muscles twitching and limbs shaking even though I am not scared. My stomach hurts but I can breathe again.

 _"Dad!"_ Tessa screams but not the way she was inside the house, I hate that sound. I can tell how pissed she is by the way she stomps through the yard and smashes grass blades underfoot. _"There's a missile in the family room!"_

So that's it – what burst from the barn in color and smoke. A missile. I remember the truck and my sister does, too. And then we're running to our barn that is now awake and alive because sound keeps coming from the other side of the doors. I let my sister take the lead, but my dad catches her as soon as she stumbles inside. The words she wanted to tell him die on her lips and are replaced with a shriek.

I stop much slowly than Tessa did when she slid into our dad. I'm behind them, but I can still see the problem because it is towering over us. This problem is bigger than the barn and has to crouch some to stand, but it struggles to even stay upright. The ground beneath my feet trembles. I have never seen one up close before – this new problem of ours – just on TV screens or billboards, but they don't come close to reality. All that it is made up of is parts jumbled together without clarity. No longer is there a sad truck. Now there is a sad, angry Transformer.

I clench my teeth and a hissing whisper wraps my words up, "Dad, you – you said it wouldn't come alive!"

No one says a word.

The robot-alien-thing turns a few times, trying to gain balance. When it faces us, it is holding some kind of blown-up version of a gun or cannon – I don't know which – something I've never seen before. He points the gun in our direction; at least I think it is a _him._

"I'll kill you!" it yells and the voice is male, so I know I was right, then. He shoves his weapon closer. "Stay back!"

I jump back about five steps. The soles of my sneakers scrape across the barn's floor as I inch closer to the open door. I shouldn't be scared because that's not me, I don't really scare. But I can't push down this feeling of wanting to run right out of those doors. The Transformer's form is dusty and carries chips and dents like the truck. All area surrounding it, workbenches and such, is smashed and sparking.

My dad tells him not to shoot. I don't know if that matters much. Lucas is on the ground amongst flattened tables and broken tools. I only realize him when he speaks, "Call 911! Run!" And he keeps repeating that word while he scrambles to his feet and hauls to the door. Dad tries to tell him to stop. The Transformer ends it all by hitting Lucas on the head with his gun; only to him the force he used seemed like a tap. Lucas falls to the ground and then he's just looking up at the beams holding the ceiling. He's quiet. An empty shell topples from the gun and bounces around him.

"Lucas?" my dad asks, trying to be calm but I can hear the nervousness in his tone, nonetheless. He holds out a hand to his friend, the other has a grip on Tessa's arm. "Don't move, just calm down."

Lucas sits up some. He raises his hands and squints up at who knocked him down. Sweat runs down his forehead, he pants.

Every time the Transformer moves, some gear in him makes a noise. "Easy, human . . ." he warns.

Dad releases Tessa and motions for the both of us to stay put. He begins creeping closer to the thing looking down at us, its silhouette reflecting off of the light shining in. "He's not gonna hurt us . . ."

And I know I shouldn't, but I just can't stand by, "But he just – "

 _"Cassie."_

But he just hurt Lucas . . .

As soon as my dad approaches him, he immediately takes a protective stance again, keeping his cards – his gun – close to his chest. "Weapons . . . systems . . . damaged . . ."

"A missile hit your engine," Dad explains. He also explains it to me without knowing it because the Transformer is where it came from, the thing that knocked the wind out of me, broke the front door, made my older sister scream that awful scream, and is now apparently in the family room. "And we took it out of you. You're hurt really bad." The thing groans every time it moves. His electric connections are sparking and some parts of him are barely holding it together, dangling. "Jus' tryin' to help you . . . You're in my home now. I'm an engineer. My name is Cade Yeager."

"Cade," he repeats my father's name as he wipes what I guess is his mouth. "I am in your debt. My name is Optimus Prime."

And that is when it all clicks into place, because I recognize hearing that name on the TV from news broadcasters as they discussed what went down in Chicago. I remember that there were two sides of that battle, how some turned against us. Looking up, Optimus Prime has blue eyes. Not all Transformers are bad, I remember, I just thought that those who were bad were hiding. So how – ?

It's like Optimus Prime just remembered, too, who he was and all . . . because he becomes very urgent suddenly, "My Autobots – they're in danger." The strength in his knees gives out and Optimus falls to his knees. A part of his – _what?_ – his – his _head? –_ falls off. Green stuff oozes out after it. "I need to go . . ." He holds his head. "I need to go now."

"How far you think you're gonna get?" my dad asks him. He informs my sister and me that it is okay to move now, and we do.

Dad asks what happened, which is what we're all wondering.

"An ambush. A trap . . . set by humans."

We did this. It was our kind.

Optimus coughs. He is kneeling over us. "I escaped and took this form."

"I thought we were on the same side," I say because I can't hold it in. "Why – why would they hurt you?"

"They were not alone."

I try to say under my breath, "Well, that's low."

He coughs again, but just once this time, "If that's what you call it, then yes, it was."

I walk forward and kneeling down, pick up the piece of his armor that fell off. It has a decent amount of weight to it and takes both arms to hold, but it is not that bad otherwise. "You shouldn't go. You look pretty bad. A tow truck had to bring you up here." My fingers grip the metal and my dad was right, it is not normal steel. I have never felt anything like it before, never on any of Dad's inventions or other cars. Optimus lowers his hand that is about half the size of me down, palm up. I place his armor there to return it to him. It leaves some dust behind and I brush it off.

"My Autobots can repair me." he informs the four of us.

"Yeah, if you can reach 'em." states Dad.

He steps forward, kicking an empty shell in the process. My dad points to where it looks to be the location of Optimus' engine, where the missile was lodged.

"What about me?"

* * *

 **Thoughts?**

 **~ Rainy**


	4. Chapter 4: Weltschmerz

***I do not own Transformers. It belongs to its rightful owner.***

* * *

 _"Our backs against the wall,_

 _We're surrounded and afraid._

 _Our lives now in the hands_

 _Of the soldiers taking aim."_

 _~ Sleeping at Last: Mars_

* * *

Chapter 4: Weltschmerz

 _\- (noun) the depression you feel when the world as it is doesn't reflect what you think it should be._

Lucas and I exit the barn. We are walking down the path blanketed in stones like sprinkles on a cupcake, towards the house and the _real_ cars, when my dad bursts through the darkness beyond the barn doors. He jogs to us, waving a piece of white paper around. We had already slowed down ahead of time so it doesn't take long for my father to catch up, but when he does, I'm looking down and watching the way my feet move when I walk over the gravel.

"Go to the hardware store and you get the list," Dad is telling Lucas and I can hear his movements over the path. " _The whole list."_

There is a rustling of paper. "What – you're going to try and fix him?" questions Lucas, doubtfully, "He's not a model train set, Cade,"

I look up when my head begins to hurt from tilting it at an angle for too long. My body swivels, birds sing in the trees; I'm at the car and Lucas and Dad approach.

"No, that's right. _He's important."_

"Yeah, but important to who?" Lucas rounds the Mini Cooper and throws open the driver's door. "You can't keep an alien locked up in your barn. What are you gonna do – play with him?"

I glance at my dad, shrugging. His eyes are on me for a second, and then they aren't.

"Listen," he says and I will, _I am,_ "Will you calm down? _Please?"_

Lucas makes a gesture to his head and crinkles the paper so it looks like the thing is panicking in his grip. "I'm trying to, but I just got hit in the head with a ten-foot cannon!" He climbs into his car, pointing, "If he eats you, I get the GTO."

"What's that?" I ask.

"It's a car." Dad answers. _Oh._ Probably one of the many broken-down ones we have. The 'it'll-work-one-day-I-just-have-to-repair-this' phrase; yeah, _that_ kind of car. _"Hey,"_ Dad reels me in, softly, before I can even think of anything else. "I need you to go with him, make sure he gets everything, alright? Only you know – "

I nod. Okay, I can do that. I kind of wanted to go, anyway, or I was planning on sneaking in somewhere in there. I open the passenger side door, but then hesitate when I remember something. "Is it the usual?"

The usual. What we buy for the neighbors' stuff on our little shopping trips.

Dad sets his hands on his hips. I see him bite down on his bottom lip to think. "Yeah, but . . . but there's more."

"I'll figure it out." I swing my body into the seat. Once I get comfortable, I reach for the seatbelt. When I try to go for the door; though, Dad starts coming forward and he closes it for me. He leans in some and starts talking through my open window,

"Not a word to anybody. Do you hear me?" He points at us. _"Not a single word."_

"Of course." I inform him, truthfully.

He bobs his head. "Alright. I know you can get the job done, just stay out of trouble."

"Okay."

Lucas starts the car. I hear him take the parking brake off, but then Dad is back.

" _Hey –_ and if I catch you driving like a maniac with my daughter in the car, you won't ever drive again, do you understand?"

Lucas sighs. "Yes, Cade . . . I hear you."

"Good." And then he tells me something that goes without saying, "I love you."

By that point, Lucas has already begun driving away, but I still say: "Yeah, you too." whether he hears it or not.

* * *

For the first time in five years, I don't look at the billboard when we pass it. I don't recite that phone number I drilled into my brain. I just sit, and I close my eyes, and I wait for it to go away. That's all I can do, really, until Lucas says something.

"Your dad is crazy," His hands grip the steering wheel but his eyes hold onto me. I wish he'd watch the road, even if his eyes retreated from it for a second and we're on a straightaway; the road is open because we haven't hit town yet. "You do know that, right?"

"He just wants to fix something." I respond, staring out at a pasture filled with livestock across the way. They're pretty far out and look like specks from here.

 _"Yeah._ Well, you can't fix everything." The pasture then gets blocked off by tall cornstalks because they are high at this time in the season. I stick my head out of the window some because it is still down and breathe in. It's my favorite time of year. My chin rests in the place a glass panel would be if the window was up, the wind whistles in my ears. The speed limit is 50 mph, but I am sure Lucas is doing more. I don't think there are any cops patrolling around, though.

Suddenly, he curses and slows up a bit. I lift my head.

"What?"

"The billboard – I forgot to look at it. Hey – do you know the number?"

 _855-363-8392_

"No."

We come to the end of the road and Lucas flicks on his turn signal to go left. He moves his head around to look out for other cars before going. There's no one. "That's okay . . ." He focuses on the road while he makes the turn. "They should have the number at the store."

They do, oh, I know _they do._ The number is practically in every store in Lockhart. I don't know why, just is, and this is the first instance I wish it wasn't.

"Lucas," I wait until I have his attention and it comes out more darkly than expected, _"Don't."_

"Jeez, Cassie, _chill."_ He tells me. I scrunch my face up. What? "It's only in case things go south for Cade and his alien."

A quiet moment passes between us with only the hum of the Mini Cooper's engine and the wind zipping in through the open windows. These movements are truly rare for us because we are always talking about just _something,_ or the radio is blaring loudly.

I end the silence. "I think . . . I think it's different this time."

"How?" There is some disbelief in his tone but not too much.

"Because, Optimus can talk to my dad and tell him how to maybe fix him, or whatever."

That's the thing, isn't it? Dad always wants to fix everything but never knows how.

* * *

Anderson's Hardware Store. That's where we go. Anderson's is a place I have been to many times before with my dad so it isn't too difficult to get most of the things on the list, but, like Dad said, there are some new objects that I have to ask a worker about after scouring the aisles. How do you even repair a Transformer anyway?

At checkout, Lucas' phone rings and he says he has to take it. I let him; tell him I'll just meet him outside. I didn't see him get the phone number so it makes me feel somewhat better, he probably forgot about it.

I give the lady at the register a friendly smile when it's my turn. Her smile is even bigger and she exclaims,

"Cassie Yeager! I haven't seen you in here for ages. Look how big you're getting!"

I pull my lips in to smile without teeth. "Hello, Miss Jenney." Mrs. Anderson is David's, the hardware store's owner, wife. She always tells me to call her Miss Jenney, so I do. The last time I was in here was in the winter months so it has been a while, I guess. "How are you today?"

"I'm doin' just fine, honey." She pauses for a moment and I take in her slightly, round face, her thin glasses, short chocolate hair, and green eyes. "You know, every time I see you or your sister I swear the both of you look more like your mother. She was a beautiful girl."

"That she was."

Miss Jenney rings up all of the items and I count the money that Lucas handed me on his way out to make sure I have enough. I do, right to the exact amount. Before Miss Jenney hands me the bags; though, she asks, "How's your daddy doing?"

Luckily, the store is mostly empty today so I don't feel rude by replying, there is no one to hold up. "Um, he's good. He is kind of tied up at the moment; though, so he sent Lucas and me out."

She chuckles. "That man and his inventions . . . You tell him Miss Jenney says 'hi', alright?" She holds out the two bags and I take them, one in each hand.

"Will do."

I take one step towards the exit before she says, "By the way, I heard that your farm is for sale. Is that true?"

I turn to look to look at her. "No. People just want it to be."

"I figured it was all talk . . . Besides, Cade is too hard-headed for those real estate folks, anyhow."

I smile. "Have a good day, Miss Jenney."

"Take care, sweetie. Try to stop in once in a while before I'm too old, okay?"

"Okay."

A man holds the door open for me as I leave the hardware store because my hands are full, I thank him. Lucas' black car is pulled up to the curb. He is not around, but he did pop the trunk for me, so I dump the "groceries" inside before slamming the trunk closed.

I end up finding Lucas off to the side of the store and upon getting closer, I realize he's on the phone. I start walking back to the car because I know he'll just join me when he's done, but I stop when I hear him talking about a truck. A truck his friend picked up from an old movie theater and he's worried about it.

 _Oh no. No, no, no, no . . ._

I sprint to him and rip the phone from his grasp without a second thought. Lucas begins yelling at me and trying to reach for it. I go to see the number, I have to –

 _855-363-8392_

My eyes widen and with shaky fingers, I bend the flip phone back and snap it in two in a panicky fashion. The number is gone, the person the other end, the phone's life –

"Cassie, what did you – "

"No!" I drop the remains of the cheap phone down on the sidewalk. _"What the hell did you do?!"_

"I had to, listen – "

He reaches out for me but I harshly brush him away. There may be people around, there may not be. Either way, I don't care.

"No, because I don't care and you're just gonna lie to me. You didn't _have to do_ anything, that phone call was on your terms." I jab a finger his way. "You know, Lucas, sometimes you can be pretty damn stupid."

I rush back to the car and practically rip the car door open, force it closed. I see Lucas pick up the pieces of his phone in the rearview mirror. He gets in his car slowly and places his broken phone in the cup holder.

"You think I like that my dad is broke?" I ask him before silence can settle between us. "That we are on the verge of losing the house? That Tessa can't get into a college?"

"I don't know why I made the call, Cassie." Lucas says.

I glance at myself through the side mirror hanging off the car door. I can feel tears, but I blink them back because I hate crying.

 _"He's my dad._ He's what I got. Tessa and I – we have to believe in him, because, who will?" I sniffle. Wipe my eyes, my nose. "You know?"

Lucas looks at me and his eyes actually appear sad. "I'm sorry."

"Let's just go." I inform him. "It's done. It's over."

* * *

Lucas zooms up our driveway. He had tuned the radio to a station I might like and the song currently is loud enough that I'm sure anyone outside the car could easily hear it. I don't mind it, though. I hold on as Lucas swings the car around in front of the barn and listen to the song lyrics before it cuts off for good.

 _"Don't forget about me,_

 _Even when I doubt you._

 _I'm no good without you, no."_

"We're back!" Lucas announces once the car is silenced and we step out.

"Took you guys long enough!" Tessa is sitting on the porch in the yellow rocker, doing homework. I leave Lucas to deal with the bags and head straight to her.

"My head hurts. I had to go to the doctor." Lucas lies. "I got a welt on my head . . . makes me look like a freakin' Star Trek character."

Tessa scoffs, rolls her eyes, _"Whatever."_

I scamper up the porch steps and my older sister's homework loses her attention. "Hey, Cas." she greets before looking down to something on the ground. "I brought your backpack and book out here, figured it would be a good time to get your homework over with and start on that book." I don't say anything. "Come on, I know you have homework . . . you can't avoid it forever."

I swallow. "Tessa, can I talk to you?"

She leans forward some and her brow furrows as she realizes something might be wrong. Tessa closes up her homework. "Yeah. What's up?"

"Lucas didn't go to the doctor."

My old sister is still before she nods. She looks around for Lucas but he's already gone.

"He probably is going to see if Dad can fix his phone." I comment.

"How did his phone get broken? It's a flip phone, you know; takes a lot for those things to kick the bucket."

I open my mouth to tell her how and why because it's important and I can't keep it caged, because someone needs to know. But nothing comes out, and there are no words. There aren't any because suddenly the wind chimes start going crazy. Tessa gets up and I follow her to the end of the porch, so we can look out over the horizon. A caravan of big, black SUVs are coming up the driveway. There's a helicopter following. I freeze.

Tessa calls for Dad, and him and Lucas run out of the barn. The cars all park and surround the perimeter, we get engulfed in dust. I cough. Men dressed in black with sunglasses exit the SUVs. They close the car doors, but I don't hear any of it because of the roar from the helicopter passing overhead. The noise subsides and the guy who I assume is in charge talks to my dad.

"Mr. Yeager, my name's James Savoy. I'm a federal agent. My men and I are trying to track down an abandoned truck."

One of Savoy's men comes up on the porch with Tessa and me. I step down into the grass. Savoy goes on saying how our property is nice but it is a shame it's for sale, Dad corrects him and tells him it's not. Then they go on talking about trucks and phone calls, but their conversation is a distance from me, so it gets lost in the wind.

"Search the property!" Agent Savoy announces to his men suddenly and my body tightens up even more.

"What do you mean: _'search the property'?"_ argues Dad. "You don't have a warrant."

Warrant or not, it doesn't matter. They swarm our home like bees. About ten minutes pass with the four of us standing rigid and silent because we know everything when they, in fact, know nothing. I watch half of the team exit the barn when those ten minutes are up.

"There's no signs. We got nothing."

I can breathe a tad easier but that still doesn't solve where Optimus even went. He's too big to just leave unnoticed, right?

"Sir," one of the soldiers catches our attention. "we have a live, armed missile in the trash."

The missile. The one that tore from the barn into the house, the one that made my sister scream that awful scream I hate, the one that made Optimus Prime come to life in our barn. _The missile._

"Live? I carried that to the trash!" Lucas turns to Dad. "You told me that was a dud, dude!" I give him a look and he scans the area, putting his arms up like they were before for some reason. "I could be dead. Right?"

 _"Look._ Okay, yes, I found a truck, alright." admits Dad. I force myself to keep a straight face. "I towed it back for the parts. I left it here last night; this morning, it's gone. When? Where? I don't know. I swear to God, that's as much as I know about him."

 _Him._ A simple word, three letters. It describes gender but in reality it doomed us all.

They take us down but not without a struggle. I kick and hit and scream and writhe until I'm slammed into the ground and get a face full of dirt. Tessa is crying and Dad is yelling. I don't move.

I feel something cold and metal press against the back of my head, brushing my neck, and that is when I break. I know what it is.

"Now, you got ten seconds." Savoy informs Dad. "Where's the truck?"

My dad is the only one in my line of vision, so I keep my eyes on him. I don't cry, just take deep breaths and shake. That's all I can do.

"You're gonna shoot my little girl?" It's an accusation not a question.

"If I have to, I'll shoot both."

My dad is shouting about what the truth is with the barn, but I hear none of it. I get pressed further into the grass until it's crushing, hurts. I'm struggling to breath and that's when I call out to my dad.

"Seven seconds."

It feels like the tears have been squeezed out of me because they are here. "Please don't shoot me . . ."

"Tell him to get away from my little girl right now!"

"Dad!"

"You touch her and I'll kill you!"

There's a shot to the ground. I jump.

"You got two seconds."

I close my eyes.

 _"Shoot her."_


	5. Chapter 5: Hiraeth

***I do not own Transformers. It belongs to its rightful owner.***

* * *

 _"We laid our names to rest_

 _Along the dotted line._

 _We left our date of birth,_

 _And our history behind."_

 _~ Sleeping at Last: Mars_

* * *

Chapter 5: Hiraeth

 _\- (noun) a homesickness for a home to which you cannot return, a home which maybe never was; the nostalgia, the yearning, and the grief for the lost places of your past._

It is one of those fleeting moments that you don't really want to happen, but you cannot scramble away from it, so you just have to just brace for impact. I'm waiting for the shot – a bullet I'd rather not have implanted in my skull – because I have no other choice. I am unsure if I will even feel it, if it will only be a zap of electricity before nothing. That's the thing with death: _it is a one way ticket._

There are shots that follow, but none of them find their way into me like they were originally destined to. Nothing else seems to make it through my cluttered brain after that; my eyes keep closed all the while my body drags across grass and embeds itself into a tree that I only recognize from the sting of sharp bark in my back. I open my eyes and what I see is something that is past overdue, something we tried to avoid through hiding and covering our tracks, but we are never so fortunate to be granted with such luck.

The barn is burning and alive, no longer stuck in endless time and in a place the sun just doesn't quite reach. And here is Optimus Prime spinning on our lawn and mad because he was the secret our barn had withheld until he erupted from the structure, and I guess – I really do – that the barn found its job. I guess it can be happy, although it's crumbling and swallowed by smoke. _I guess so._

My brain had wandered but my surroundings; however, did not . . . because that is the real part. The earth under me is shifting and moving all the while Optimus takes his rage out on the federal agents and soldiers. It almost seems wrong because they were both designed to protect; but when it came down to the wire, who turned on who? _People. My own kind._ Yet I am taught in school to be afraid of Transformers.

My hands grab fistfuls of grass when Dad pushes Tessa and me down, still using one of our oak trees for cover. Optimus is drawing closer and bodies are flying, but I try to imagine them as test dummies rather than the real, living, breathing version. I can pretend it is not happening, I can pretend that it is not death. _I can pretend._

Lucas dives over our porch swing sprouting out from the tree and I see tools fly out of his belt when he hits the ground in front of me.

"Cade!" I hear Optimus Prime call out to my dad. "They're going to kill you!"

I think they made their intentions known and got the message across to me the second a gun was at my head.

"Get out of here!"

And so we do. I scramble up on to the soles of my shoes and sprint after my dad, Tessa, and Lucas. The four of us dart past the house; Optimus does some kind of barrel roll to get out of the line of fire and suddenly one of our trucks' explodes, flipping forwards. I stop for a second to turn and look over my shoulder. My legs are shaking, whole body is thumping, and I can feel the heat from the flames. Dad comes and grabs my arm, we keep going.

The only good thing that came out of Miss McGatlin's visits was when she took her car through the fence yesterday and broke it. Despite messing up a section of the power grid, the gap she created is what we use as an escape route. We're heading through a wheat field that runs off of our property and I can see the neighbor's cattle moving around in a crazed and panicked way in their pasture, some kicking at one another. I start to wonder what all of our neighbors are actually thinking at this moment, but their houses are still and dark, so they are most likely hiding until we go away; whenever all of this does.

The wheat in the field is still growing and the strands only brush up to my knees. I pump my legs to go faster until it hurts, until I am almost up with Dad; he is always the fastest because he is an adult with longer legs and bigger lungs. That's when soaring from overhead pierces my ears and I let fatigue take over while I move down into a slower pace of a jog. I don't lose the group and I am right with Tessa for the impact of destruction.

What is happening with the sounds and smells and sights do not click with me, not until they have to . . . when the missiles hit the ground, when the missiles hit the barn, when the missiles hit the house, when the missiles take everything – It's gone, all of it, and the only thing I can do is make some sound and latch onto my older sister because I cannot stop running, because I cannot feel my legs anymore . . . or anything.

There are soldiers coming at us, heading across the ridge of the next hill that leads down into the valley with a pond; our hill also takes us there. We don't slow down much because of that factor and I'm thinking because Dad knows we have Optimus, but I do not see any Transformer right now. Not like you can miss them once they're transformed and freaking out on your used-to-be property . . .

Without warning, a car appears from the other side of the hill where the soldiers are. It's airborne and hits some of the men while others roll out of the way. None of them get up and I try not to think about it too much as the car slides around the side of the pond, kicking up dust. When it stops and everything clears, I tug on my sister's arm.

"Tessa! Tessa – "

She recognizes the vehicle, too, and the two of us bolt down the hill into the valley with whatever strength is left. Dad and Lucas follow more slowly because they don't know, but I do. And, oh, _Tessa sure does._

Tessa and I practically race right into the little car because we've been running so long that it is now hard to think about stopping. She's yanking at the back door handle and jumps in, crawling over two seats to get all the way to the left. I scramble in after her, practically falling over myself.

My older sister's boyfriend, Shane, reaches over the passenger seat and pops open the door there. He shouts to Lucas and Dad, who are still lagging behind some, "Come on . . . hurry up! Get in the car!"

"Shane, for once, I'm actually glad to see you and your overpriced car." I say, finally gathering up my bearings. I have no idea how he knew about what was going on here, but if he wanted me to like him, this is a good start.

"Always a pleasure, kid." he says in a breath, accepting my usual sarcastic attitude. Only this time I am actually glad for him. Just this time.

He yells at the other two to hurry up again and Tessa calls out to our dad, and then Lucas is sitting beside me and Dad is up with Shane in the passenger seat. I buckle myself in while car doors are slamming and the engine roars. The seatbelt is one of those racing car ones, but I have ridden in this car enough times to know how it works; the other newbies don't seem to have much trouble, either.

Shane spins his car around the pond to go back the way he came, the way were trying to go all along. The helicopter that has been patrolling the perimeter the whole time for coverage up above stoops down too close for comfort. I let myself think for a second and realize that we should have known when not only a team of black SUV's rolled up the driveway, but also a helicopter thundered behind them that we were not getting out of this easily. They would have found something, there is always . . . _something._ But despite my thinking, Shane floors it, and I'm back in the moment.

My body lurches when we accelerate, back and forth through the motions of the rally car. It doesn't really bother me as much; though, because we at least now have fast transportation to get away and I have done this before – well, not exactly like this. I have sat in the back, the passenger seat, and maybe in the driver's seat like once because Shane let me drive it down a regular, straight road a few feet before Tessa freaked out and told him to stop. According to him, I _"wasn't hurting anythin'"_ but Tessa thought different because she used _the Dad card_ , and that's when everyone shut up. She and Shane have been dating for a while now and I have just recently – like two or three months ago – started to _get_ them, but I think the majority of it is Shane's cool rally car, despite it being pricey.

Shane is okay. But just okay.

The five of us are going parallel with the cow field to the right, the status of the cows are not doing much better than earlier. By now, all of them have moved to the far end up on a hill, but I can still see all of their forms and black coats peeking out from the low sun and high grass. I get pulled back into my seat when our car swerves. There is a black vehicle tailing us, definitely government-looking; it's hard to tell what kind it is because I have never seen anything like it. I think there may be another one somewhere back there, but between all of the dirt tires are picking up to create dust clouds and my hair attacking my face in dirty-blonde mounds from the open windows, it is hard to tell.

I have ran around in these fields back when I was younger and Tessa still liked to come out and play tag, but never did we tear through them at speeds like this. Every dip in the terrain, every bump – I can feel it. It makes you think about how the earth is shaped, everything is different.

"What's happenin', baby?" Shane asks, obviously directed more so to Tessa than anyone else. He half glances back at her, then he is at the rearview mirror – his eyes swish quickly to and from all the other aids because there is a lot going on. "Who are they?"

"It's the truck!" Tessa yells back, sitting up in her seat. "They want the truck!"

The moment I knew was eventually going to happen because Dad has been quiet for far too long comes. "Who are _they?"_ he questions, then jabbing his eyes at the driving Shane, _"Who are you?"_ I wait for him to remember. "And who are you calling 'baby'?"

There it is.

Nothing from anyone for a minute. Shane turns his attention to driving, that's what he is good at, anyways.

Dad presses, "I know you heard me!"

They both admit to it at the same time in one big garble of speech. Yes, they're dating. Yes, they're boyfriend and girlfriend.

And, yes, now Dad is going to freak out since he is anti-dating, anti-growing up, anti-whatever. He doesn't want it, but it is happening. At least with my older sister.

 _"What?!"_ Dad barks, looking at Shane. "You're not her boyfriend!"

"Yes, he is." I try to say quietly and to myself, like in some sluggish way. But my dad still hears, of course he hears . . .

The eyes are on me now and he is turned back to face me. "Wait, you knew about this?"

Maybe – sort of – kind of? "Not really."

He twists his head and tells whatever is out the open passenger window: "C'mon, Cassie!"

I didn't say yes. Oh, give it up, Cas, he knows. How could he not?

Tessa comes in to try and help calm the situation, not that it really can be, "His name's Shane and he drives, Dad."

Lucas leans out his window, gripping the frame. I almost forgot about him because he hasn't had much of any comment towards our family feud. "What kind of cars are those?" I hear him ask. "They're so scary!"

I look and now there is another car same as the other one attempting to creep up on us. Dad warns Shane about the second vehicle. Shane swings us around and we end up speeding right in between the two cars as they are slowing down to turn and follow us. Sliding sideways into a corn field, I don't think I catch my breath again until the car finds traction and collects itself. We are in a lane, towering corn stalks on both sides, and no sign of the other team in this car chase. Dad and Shane are looking around because this is a straight stretch of land where it is easier to stay in line. Nothing. Then the helicopter is back.

And that's what I'm looking at when we get plowed into by one of the stupid, advanced authority-car-thing – whatever the hell it is. We rise up before going back down. The only thing damaged is Shane's window, which was the only window closed; it smashed during impact. Brushing off the glass, our rally car keeps going.

So we do, too.

* * *

It takes some time before we lose the "scary cars". It takes driving through farms, fences, and vegetation before we reach the core of Lockhart: the center of town.

But even here we are targeted because I can hear the sirens wailing while we dive in and out of traffic. A pulsing sound from above indicates the helicopter is bearing down on us again. Everyone knows now, everyone is against us.

All Dad did was buy a sad, worn-down truck so he could strip it for parts because we're broke, because we were about to lose everything.

We lost everything, anyways.

Buildings and cars and people fly past the car window. "Mr. Yeager, this is not how I wanted us to meet, okay?" Shane informs Dad, taking one hand off the wheel to talk. "I'm Shane, and I'm a completely – "

"And I am not talking to you," Dad cuts in sharp to get his point across. He grabs the loose hand, slapping it back on the steering wheel. _"Drive the car!"_

That's his angry voice. It is not that I hear it much because I don't, but that doesn't make me like it, either.

The screaming sirens draw closer until they are in my face and we have to swerve again. There is not much for me to hold on to because I am in the middle seat, so I go for grabbing my own seatbelt. We take the turn so roughly that the car almost spins around completely, nearly flipping. But then we flop back down to Earth and a choir of crashes happens behind me, but we're off again, so I'm not sure if it matters as much.

Shots sound and bullets hit the pavement around us and the frame of the vehicle. I duck down, we all do, really – sway down the road. At this point, it feels like my heart is in my throat and thumping loudly and I try to drown out what is happening, but I can't, I just can't. Because, at the end of the day, getting shot at in a moving vehicle where you can't see anything coming is not okay, it is not fun. So I let it slip, and, yeah –

 _"Shit!"_ I say it and I don't mean it, but I do. I hear my name being called by no other than Dad. And I just reply with nothing short of the truth because he hates when I beat around the bush:

"Dad, if there is any time cussing could be justified, now is it."

He doesn't reply and I think I might have stumped him on that, but there is too much going on to tell; I can't see his face. I hear our car screech around a bend either due to the windows being down or non-existent from the earlier crash.

"Man, I don't know how I'm drivin' this good." states Shane, eyes locked on what's ahead. "It's like today I've gone to a whole other level."

Comforting, I guess?

Dad doesn't think so. "Road, focus! Stop talking!"

Guess not, then.

Heading further into the depths of town, the little car I'm in zooms down alleyways, smashing into boxes and trashcans. Lucas admits that he did call the number on the billboard that I am trying to forget and claims that they were supposed to send a check, not a death squad. I tell my father how I tried to stop him, but none of this really matters because here we are running just as we've been for the past half an hour or more. Lucas is with us and Dad, Tessa, and I still care for him because he's practically family, practically all I've known since my dad and him are childhood friends. He stepped in after things happened with Mom and yeah – _Yeah._

Shane says to _hold on_ and I grasp my seatbelt again when we curve in to face a building with a large glass window out front. There is a decorative sign that reads: "BINGO" and people inside, but they'll move . . . right? They sure do when we crash through the glass window, wiping out a few tables and many chairs. The building is small and we head out through a loading dock in the back. To me, it doesn't feel all that real, but it is, it was – we went through a building in a car.

It looks like we drove ourselves into a courtyard by the factory. The place is empty.

Lucas looks over his shoulder. "We lost them!" he announces, patting the back of Shane's seat. "Good job, stranger from the corn fields."

I smile. Rounding the factory, I catch a glimpse of moving metal on the side of the building. I have to crane my neck to see two Transformers: Optimus and a significantly smaller and darker one. They're scaling the factory and I remember that he had mentioned his friends earlier, yet I didn't think I would be seeing any of them soon. Not here, not in sleepy Lockhart, Texas.

The thought of them being friends vanishes; though, when the smaller one shoots at Optimus and rams his – _head?_ – down into the roof of the factory.

"Oh my God . . ." I gasp out. Lucas says that the scary cars are back and my attention flicks off from the two Transformers fighting on top the roof. The two, scary cars swarm us in the back, two more of those SUV's are heading our way. They're going to block us in.

"Loose 'em at the factory, Shane!" instructs Tessa from beside me. Shane makes a quick swipe to the left to avoid the four vehicles. Down another back alley and we come out the other side twisting and screeching going right. Looking back, moving hair from my eyes, and grabbing onto the shoulder of Shane's seat to steady my small form, I note that they're on us again; seems like the thirtieth time.

"I thought you knew how to drive this thing," I catch Dad commenting to Shane. _"Go!"_

We burst through a gate, tearing it from its hinges and flattening the chain-link under our four tires. We're practically flying again and I think the blurry mess whizzing by could be the shipping dock; I've been here before. Here are my old friends, the black SUV's; the chase carries on as Shane guides us around this industrial maze, trying to throw the others off. But it is the second they start to suffocate us when Optimus Prime jumps in and, more or less, tackles them.

Cars fly up, shipping containers fall, something explodes – It feels like an earthquake, a clap of thunder, and everything in between. Vibrations from the boom cause Shane's car to wobble and shake. We slide on nothing up until Shane straightens his car out.

I get a good idea of what's to come once we enter the car garage that flows out of the factory. The dim lighting inside consume and swallow us up; normally, it would be a relief from the strain of the sun, but not today. Today, I want to see. Today, I want to know. Today, I want to feel.

I just want to feel this chase run out of miles and settle down. But, like I said, we're not that lucky.

The modern, government cars tracked us down once more. One goes on either side of us, but they are forced to merge back together when we start the climbing part.

 _One, two, three, four . . ._ I count within the time we rise. It feels like riding a carousel, one that turns quick and jagged. Up on the fifth floor . . . we should get rid of them for good here.

The two other drivers attempt to rush us, get us panicked, have us slip up on this icy terrain. People roll down the windows and hang out that way, begin shooting at us. I fold into myself and cover my ears because it is better to handle that way. I know what happens on the fifth floor of the car garage by the factory because it usually goes on after rally car races and such, because there is a ramp for a reason. Shane once showed me the gears to switch in the car and what all to do, and I have seen other people do it, but never me. I hear him prepare his little yet mighty car. It squeals, turns, and then we're facing it, and I'm sitting up and holding on. I think Lucas and Dad are yelling and shouting, but I remain silent.

Up the little ramp, weightless for a few seconds, and BANG! we hit the landing ramp and roll back on solid ground. My head swims.

As predicted, the ones chasing us did not make it and they crash and burn, we rise. Lucas cheers, we do a donut.

"Tessa!" Dad roars and it comes in a wave to the back seats. "You are so grounded!"

Nothing about me, yet. But I am sure Tessa will drag something out of him later.

It doesn't take long to notice that some of the car is dragging behind. I know I felt _something_ more when we reached the bottom.

Shane curses, _"Shit!"_ We skid to a stop and it almost feels good to be still for a moment or two. "The rim's cracked."

That means we are done. That means we are stuck. Because the car cannot go anywhere if the rim is all bent out of shape, and it is not like Shane can call up a tow truck when the better half of Texas, it seems, wants to chase us down. He twists the key out of the ignition and the little rally car finally sleeps. I hear collected sighs, tapping on the steering wheel – breathing, shifting . . . the living stuff.

Sitting in the car is like being in a bubble about to pop. We found out all this new information we're trying to take in, and, for whatever I know, it could be moments away from spilling out into the open. The silence is not so much a silence but rather bordering hesitation, a promise that there will be more.

My ears pick up on gravel breaking under pressure and the rumble of a warm engine. There is that sliding noise tires make when they snap in a certain direction and loud honking inviting my attention.

 _"Optimus,"_ Dad announces his arrival. He directs his eyes to the three of us in the back seats. "C'mon! Move, move!"

I allow my body to do as it wishes and it performs some kind of shuffle-slide over to Tessa's now vacant side as she exits the car. Clambering out after her, I basically kick the car door open since it tries to swing back around and close on me. I know my limbs are going every-which-way during the process, but I am in my head right now and not controlling what is beneath it.

I run to Dad and grab his hand; joining a chain Shane, Tessa, and he have already begun forming. We jog a couple paces forward – _wait._ Lucas – his – his foot is stuck, hold on . . . okay, here he comes . . .

A clunk on metal sounds. The smaller, darker Transformer who was set on fighting Optimus Prime earlier just landed on a platform diagonal from my form where he probably has a good view of us all, this whole scene that is about to play out.

The Transformer throws something on the ground and I break free of my head to return to the rest of me. Someone screams to run and that is the last thing I hear before my eardrums pop. So much is happening, but it is silent and slow to me. I run without grabbing hold of someone else to aid me, my arms thrust before me and elbows dig into the nothingness of air. The heat is threatening my ankles, my eyes are watering, but I guess being myself and pretending that there was something seemly imaginable chasing me whenever I ran the mile in gym class saved me in the end.

Because I do make it to Optimus with bigger people I sometimes have trouble keeping up the pace with. Ashes rain from the sky and cover me in even more earthly debris. The truck's passenger door opens by itself and I try to hide my surprise to this action I have always had to do manually by focusing on the steep slope to get into the vehicle. I'm little and I hate that, and I'm coughing when I hoist myself up to the seat. My lungs hurt.

I gaze out the dirty windshield because Dad is paused halfway into the driver's side and I want to know what's up.

 _Now all of me hurts._

The flames at home burned the barn, burned the yard, burned the house, my room – even that book I was unsure if I would ever read, but now the opportunity is gone. Everything I have ever owned that is not the clothes on my back is gone.

And I guess someone got bored of burning things and wanted to start taking people away from me again because Lucas is still out _there._ Lucas is there but he isn't, this is Nothing Lucas. Nothing Lucas is burnt to a crisp and melting away, I would not know it was him if there did not used to be five of us and now here sits just four.

Nothing Lucas was Something Lucas a minute ago.

Until the fire took him, too.


	6. Chapter 6: Yūgen

***I do not own Transformers. It belongs to its rightful owner.***

* * *

 _"Let the brokenness be felt,_

 _'Til you reach the other side."_

 _~ Sleeping at Last: Mars_

* * *

Chapter 6: Yūgen

 _\- (noun) an awareness of the universe that triggers emotional responses too deep and mysterious for words._

Dad was supposed to build something that mattered. It didn't have to be anything complex because simplicity is key. He would have a steady business, pay the bills, and I'd get to see him smile again. Tessa would be able to go off to college; the two of us would prove her that we can be alright on our own. Dad and I would throw the football around in the yard and the grass would tickle because we'd forget shoes. He'd make grilled cheese, burning it half of the time, but I would not complain because he tried. Maybe one day he'd come home and an actual dog would hop out of his pickup truck who he had rescued from the pound. I'd probably name it after some constellation.

Tessa was supposed to get accepted into one of those prestigious colleges she had dreamt of since Middle School. At first, she'd call every night because it turned out she would be the one to struggle without us. She'd come home on the holidays and talk about how different her campus was from Lockhart, Texas. Dad would find out about Shane eventually, but he would only hold a grudge for so long.

Lucas was supposed to stick around and I'd make fun of him for his bad driving when in all honesty it wasn't terrible, just mediocre. He was supposed to hang out and drink beer and help build camp fires, and we'd laugh at cheesy jokes he read off a joke book that his mom gave him last Christmas because she just wanted to see him be happy, always did. Lucas was supposed to stay until he found someone he loved so much that whenever he saw them he forgot how to speak. Tessa and I would be bridesmaids in the wedding; Dad would be the Best Man. Then they would go off to have kids that had the same mop of curly hair as their father; he'd teach them how to surf because that was his real passion.

And me? Well, I was supposed to finish _"To Kill a Mockingbird"_ and take some kind of message from it. I was supposed to go back to school and be accepted because I joined some sport's team, and they would remember how good of a person my sister was. I was supposed to have good friends, maybe a boyfriend here or there. We would go out to parties, to the beach in the summer, make those friendship bracelets everyone does. I was supposed to be okay.

But I'm not okay.

I don't get to realize it until we're many miles from home, speeding down a straightaway in the middle of barren, Texas desert, that all of those "supposed-to-be's" where simply unsaid thoughts and never set in stone. I'm stuffed between my sister and our father. It is a comfortable packed-in and not shoulder-to-shoulder or toe-to-toe because there are only four people. But why does it still feel bone crushing? Because Lucas is dead, and I'll never poke fun at him again, and we'll never laugh at those stupid jokes, and his mom will never see him happy, and I'll never be in that wedding, and he will never have those children who are Mini-Lucas' with the hair eating away at their face.

There is no house to go home to, so there won't be any genius inventions from Dad, or overcooked food, or dogs. Tessa can't graduate or attend any of those dream colleges she deserves to be at.

I shove my back into the seat's worn-and-torn fabric, fists balled. No one has uttered a word since we abandoned the factory, and all I have been getting are blank stares and this white noise while this truck – Optimus Prime – zooms by a whole lot of nothing. My seat moves the slightest and I am pushed forwards. I glance around; no one else seems to have taken notice. My eyes do a sweep and I'm looking at the steering wheel turning on its own, pedals shifting as the truck changes gear.

I catch a glimpse of my hallow brown eyes and swirling dirty-blonde hair in the side mirror. The mirror itself is chipped and scratched, kind of mucky, too; I can still see me, though. I most likely will not be going back to school – at least the same one – which sounds great and all, but in hindsight, now I won't be able to be a part of something, or become popular like my older sister. I look away when the side mirror pivots my way, feeling somewhat uncomfortable that I am being watched because this whole "my-truck-is-alive" thing is still new to me.

Leaning back, the seat allows my presence this time. I feel, well, _I know,_ I should be crying in this stuffy truck because that is what people do when someone dies, but, I – I can't . . . I just can't.

Tessa can. "Lucas – " The name rolls off her tongue in a bubbly way. Her cheeks are stained with fresh tears and her mouth hangs open like a gaping fish because she is having a tough time swallowing up all of this oxygen that never goes away. _"We just left him."_

I don't know the way it went because it all happened so quick; we were waiting and he was coming and then we were running and the bomb – the heat – the ashes – Lucas was just _there . . ._ like – like _that_ and I had a whole five seconds to mourn before tires were squealing away, and now the whole world wants me dead and –

 _Slow down, Cassie. You're here. You can breathe. In, out; see, your heart still works._

Tessa and I must have switched roles today because usually she is the one who is – or has to be – strong and breathe, not become a weeping mess. I hate crying, but she tries to smother her tears and bury them six feet under. I can see the real her regardless because she is my older sister, and I watch the way she tiredly releases the University rejection letters into the kitchen trashcan; I know when she's nervous for Dad, or me, or a test in school because she grabs at her arms and rubs them because she mostly has to be her own anchor. I can never forget Mother's Day because every year I discover her at the kitchen table with her hands wrapped like a vice around a steaming cup of coffee; she doesn't drink coffee because she says it overstimulates her. But only on Mother's Day . . .

Dad stretches across me to get to Tessa and holds her hand. "He's gone." Lucas is gone.

"He meant more than that," My voice cracks. Dad releases Tessa and his arm snakes around my shoulders.

"I know, honey," he says, bringing his free hand up near his mouth. He sniffs hard, swallows, before snapping his head to the window. "I know . . ."

Dad rubs at my shoulder and I stay put. My eyes point ahead, we're off of our main traveling road, pavement turned to sand and dust. I change direction to look at what is on my right: a bubbling Tessa and a Shane so quiet that I almost forgot he got dragged into this mess as well. Our eyes collide, different colors clashing. He nods and his eyes mean it. Mine narrow to examine his movements before dropping because there is not much to respond to.

It's not a good time to apologize for his expensive rally car getting turned into a Nothing like Lucas.

Our means of transportation stops. Steam blows out of its pipes when it rests back on its wheels. There is still a slight _buzz_ radiating about, which I guess is like its energy; how to tell if your car is alive 101. Dad's arms goes away from me as the doors open by themselves, which is still weird. I scoot out of the driver's side after him; Tessa and Shane climb out of the other side. There is a drop, which is the biggest for me since I'm the smallest, and I try to brace for impact before letting go. Nothing is bad about it, but when I plop down into the dusty earth a pins-and-needles type feeling shoots up my legs. I shake them out.

When I get in a few steps, I lift my head to find out where the hell we ended up: an empty gas station in the heart of Texas desert. Great.

I hear a _ZAP!_ and I spin around to watch the truck splay open and begin unfolding. Gears turn and spin, I jump back when a closed fist hits dirt because the rumble is bigger than expected. In less than a minute here is Optimus Prime, crouched down and looking at us four.

"My deepest sympathies for the loss of your friend," Optimus leaves the words hanging in the wind. I am not sure if he means it, but he understands what happened; he has probably lost others to people like that, he said so before. I am still adjusting to this: Optimus Prime in general, his voice, the car-to-robot thing, running from the government. It has just begun for me but for him it's been years.

Optimus instructs, "Stay here till I'm sure we weren't followed. We are all targets now."

No one speaks and he doesn't leave time for it. One second he is towered over me, and the next he's back to a familiar truck and driving away. Dusty, old Texas swallows the vehicle up.

"So we're hidin' out now?" Shane's voice from behind me, "That's the plan?"

I watch the dust cloud shrink smaller and smaller.

 _I guess so, Shane._

"We're taking orders from a truck?"

Why not? He saved us, helped with not getting a bullet lodged into my skull. Dad wants to know if Shane has a better idea.

I face my sister's boyfriend. "He didn't have to come back for us."

"Lucas is dead, Cassie." Tessa jumps in, having to remind me.

"Optimus helped us."

"He's the one those people wanted dead!"

I throw my arms out, unsure of the exact root of my frustration, but it is there. Dad settles me down by turning and placing a hand on my rigid skin. I loosen up some, and then he's the one to tighten because he takes note of Shane's arm around Tessa, which I had not noticed because it is a normal gesture between them for me now.

Dad moves up to the pair. "Hey, move away from her, kid. Don't – " He walks through them, separating Shane and Tessa so they are no longer attached at the hip. "Keep your hands off her, alright? _No . . ."_

He storms off, they look at me, and I shrug because I'm only thirteen and none of this should be real.

* * *

The interior of the gas station has seen better days with its ancient furniture and mounds upon mounds of clutter lying around. It reminds me of the barn, but at least our "research lab" flowed a little. Normally, Dad would be all over this, but instead he grabs a chair and sits backwards in it. His one-hundred-an-hour brain is actually easing up, and that is what worries me even though he needs it to slow down.

The tension builds.

Tessa hops up on the counter where I guess you'd pay for gas and whatnot. She uses the palm of her hands to slide her body so she's parallel with the counter, and then she weaves her legs into each other to sit like a "pretzel" if someone wants to use kindergarten terms like me. I lift myself up in the conclusion of her movements and it hurts a little from all that running earlier; adrenaline is beginning to wear off. I hang my legs off the counter and let them swing freely despite their soreness; see Shane positioning himself at a table some feet to my right.

Nothing is said. The tension keeps filling up this space and I know it's only a matter of time before it'll pop like a balloon.

Tessa grabs two cords I almost could not see. She hunches her back to look down at what she's doing and connects them. The room lights up in a bunch of different colors that are strung all around this gas station. It's like Christmas. The majority of the lights are in actuality caught in a bunch before my sister. I stare and pick apart blues and greens and reds.

Popping a balloon can be fun if it is after a party and you need to get rid of all these lightless shapes, so you come up with a handful of methods to do so. Like standing on it, the good old run and jump, or just taking a seat; nevertheless, the outcome is the same.

The not fun balloon popping is when you're at that six-year-old's birthday party, and someone happens to accidently touch one of the balloon wrong and it pops so loudly that the whole party needs to be stopped because now this kid is going to have a freak-out.

Yeah. That is how messy the tension shatters in this gas station.

"Well, bright side," Tessa's voice is very dull and low. "you guys met." She holds on to the "t" and it makes it worse by bringing more attention to the fact that Dad knows about all of . . . _this_ now.

"Where is he from?" Dad's reply comes within a second later, voice too calm and collected for comfort.

Tessa unplugs the lights, it grows darker. "I told you . . . he's a driver from Texas."

 _"Texas?"_ Lights come back on. "Where? Dublin, Texas? Shamrock, Texas – why does he sound like a leprechaun?"

If it was any other day I would probably laugh at the remark, but I bite my tongue and push my legs back to kick at the underside of the counter instead. Shane says that my dad would get his ass kicked in Ireland for speaking such words, he's probably right.

I hear Dad counter, "Well, we're not in Ireland, Lucky Charms. We're in Texas." The conversation chugs along, but I lower my listening ability to seek out something to do, like my sister turning on and off the lights. I find it when I peek at the shelves behind the counter, pulling out from the grubby depths a snow globe. I wipe it clean the best I can, it's the shape of the state of Texas painted to resemble the American flag. _How patriotic._

Tessa's words are different from the rest of the talk about Shane and what his job is, "Yeah. At least he makes a living . . ."

I look up. The lights switch off again.

 _"Thank you."_ replies Dad. He hides his feelings and his eyes flutter to me, who hasn't had much to say this whole time. "You – you knew about this, right?"

I nod, kind of hesitantly at first.

"How long?"

"About a couple months." It's really been around half a year, but I find it better not to mention that.

He bobs his head to himself, gliding his tongue along his lips; Dad shuffles his weight in the chair. "Well, that's just great, Cassie. _Good to know."_

Dad's words do nothing to make me feel better. Luckily, Shane dives in to help me out – another thing he can do if he wants me to like him – and speaks about the legitimacy of the whole situation. He races rally cars, the driver-navigator thing, Red Bull, that little car we left to burn was worth so much –

Dad springs up, coming forward at us, "How old are you?" He narrows his eyes at Shane.

Shane answers, honestly, "Twenty."

And here it comes. Dad starts listing off everything wrong with how Tessa is a minor, and he'll punch him, and Shane will call the cops, or Dad will call the cops first because it is illegal, but none of this will work out because we're "criminals" and all of us will be on trial if someone were to pick up a phone right now.

I shake the snow globe to drown out sounds, wishing it would snow in Texas because I have never seen it before.

Yeah. Snow in the dry desert, that's funny.

"We're protected by the Romeo and Juliet laws." state _s_ Shane. Dad looks confused and I don't blame him entirely; not like he would be searching up Texas' dating laws for his precious first born.

"We dated for a little while," Tessa adds, "I was a Sophomore, and he was a Senior. It's fine."

Dad scoffs. _"No, it's not fine."_

Shane has kept calm throughout this whole ordeal, and I'm beginning to wonder if he is actually collected or just playing off being intimidated by my father. He grips the counter that we all have seemed to be hovering around at this time, pointing out, "We've got a preexisting juvenile foundational relationship." He pulls out his wallet, flashing Dad the _card._ "Statute 22.011."

I've heard this conversation before. I found out about Shane and my older sister's relationship on a Friday night months ago. It was a late night for Dad, so he wasn't home yet, and I was sitting out on the porch because that is what I do when I cannot sleep. A car had pulled up and I assumed it was Tessa because she had claimed she was going out with friends' hours before. However, when I saw that she was with a guy and they shared a goodnight kiss, I figured out it was more than that, and pretty quickly, too. Tessa thought I was in bed, until she spotted me on the front porch curled up in my usual chair, eyes wide and mouth open. I met Shane, they explained the whole situation, showed me the statute. I was not too fond of Shane but it wasn't like I was going to cry to Daddy either; Tessa just couldn't take the chance of her _little sister_ even thinking about it, though.

I look to Shane as the last bits of the memory of how we met passes through. He is okay now; hauled us out of Lockhart so I can't complain. Turning back to the snow globe that screams America, I shake it again since all of the particles have since floated to the bottom.

"Romeo and Juliet, huh?" I hear Dad thinking it over. "You know how those two ended up?"

"In love." Tessa muses. I observe it snowing in Texas, the lights click back on. I wonder who pays the electric bill around here . . .

Romeo and Juliet reminds of a school I may not ever attend again, and it makes my brain hurt.

 _"Dead."_ finishes Dad. At this point I am listening along, but not using my eyes to follow people because I am busy with the snow globe. Every time Texas gets slightly uncovered from snowflakes, I jerk it around, jabbing myself in the gut during the process, and another storm comes through. "Do your parents know about this? Is your dad okay with you dating a seventeen-year-old girl?" The _SWISH!_ sound it makes from the liquid inside is also better than the humid silence and heavy words here.

I keep my ears open to hear Shane's answer, "He took off when I was five, but if I ever bump into him, I'll ask 'im."

My stomach is starting to get sore from hitting it with each shake of the snow globe because I am hunched over, but I don't care. I guess I am just distracting myself.

I stop and raise my head when Dad finally leaves Shane and comes over to Tessa and I. "You know, Tessa, _I trusted you."_

The lights turn off. They don't come back.

"To what?" Tessa questions in this weird and annoyed drunk-like voice. It throws me off. "Never have fun, take a risk? Just stay home and take care of my little sister – be a normal teenager like you were, right?"

Sometimes, I feel like it's my fault, or I'm a burden, or just too much like my dad for Tessa to want to deal with. She sticks with me and supports me without complaint, yet times like this when she is upset I can't help but wonder if it is the truth speaking for her. It's dumb and I should not worry because that isn't me, but I don't know . . . I just, _don't._

And that's what kills me.

Back to Dad. "I am your father, okay?" He points to himself, and when he uses motions like this I know he is serious. "And I have been busting my ass to take care of both you and your sister."

"Is that what you were doing when you brought home the truck? All you had to do was report it, and now _Lucas is dead."_ Tessa uses her hands to turn her body so her legs dangle off of the edge of the counter like mine. "And my life is over." She jumps down. " _Thank you._ You've taken real good care of us . . ."

Tessa throws open the old front door, slamming what's left of it closed after she leaves. The walls tremble and I can feel the vibrations from the action through the counter.

I set the snow globe down.

* * *

One of my favorite parts of Texas are its sunsets. The colors are bright and all mixed into one another. Sometimes, the reflection produced when the sun goes to bed is reflected so strongly that the part of the Earth I can see changes color entirely, or is at least tinted. Tonight the sky is painted in shades of blue, yellow, and orange; nothing attention-seeking like the heavy-duty red sunsets, but still pretty.

When I look at the sunset it helps me get lost, makes me forget, even, about . . . about things I don't want to cross my mind, or – or talk about. And maybe I shouldn't have to deal with it, and maybe that's the answer. The stuff still exists; though, and it always will; and these thoughts in my head aren't for me to throw a pity party from my own misfortunes because that isn't me. I'm happy to be alive; I know it could be worse.

Just today –well, _today –_ really upped the ante, and I would be lying if I said it was not overwhelming, and that I am one-hundred percent me, one-hundred percent okay.

The snow globe is in my hand, I lower it to the sand. Tessa is somewhere out here; I don't know where. I have never experienced a sunset in the Texas desert outside of an abandoned gas station that creaks every time the wind blows a certain way. There is a first for everything, I suppose.

I move a few yards forward, throw out my arms; and standing in only a portion of a Texas desert where the dust never ends, I spin. My legs pin in tightly and the world is going around me in blurs of colors. I can feel my arms doing their own thing, as I do not think that I have much of a say right now.

When I stop, I stumble, ending up letting myself give in and fall onto my butt. I catch my breath, hold on to the Earth again; it is peaceful here. My ankles rotate and feet sway back and forth like wiper blades on a car. The laces on my shoes flop around and same grains of sand come out of them, but not much. I wish I had decided to wear my boots today instead of my converse sneakers because I can feel some crusts of sand down in my socks, stuck between my toes.

Wasn't like I was expecting my house to be blown up, though.

Creamy yellow, dark boots, light steps, flowing clothes – my sister becomes visible from shrubs and the corner of the gas station.

"How's the whole 'my-life-is-over' thing going for you?" I call to her, bracing my palms on sand, dirt, rocks – whatever is around.

Tessa shrugs, approaching me. She looks tired. "Why are you sitting in the dirt?"

"It's just Texas," I reply. Extending my hand out to my older sister, she takes it, pulling me up. I brush my jeans off.

We both face the sunset that is shrinking by the second.

I hear Tessa snort. She wipes her face. "It's pretty stupid, right?"

"If you want it to be,"

"No, it is. I was more worried about Dad finding out about Shane that I didn't stop . . . to – to think – " She stops for a second, I watch her face change; she's burying it again . . . "Lucas _isn't here anymore,_ and, Cassie, _you almost got shot – "_

I can feel the cold metal of the gun painfully digging into the back of my neck again. I shudder. _"Tessa . . ."_

She shakes her head, grabbing one of my arms. Her light green eyes are glassy, but she's still fighting it. "You're always going to be my little sister, okay?"

I nod. "Of course. And you'll always be my jerk of a sister."

Tessa smiles. "C'mere, you brat,"

She hauls me to her, so I don't have much of choice, but I am not trying to get away. We're sisters. We fight over things we will forget about in an hour at most, share things, talk about things, she dates stupid boys; I hang out with people that I do stupid things with. We rarely hug and rarely cry because we grew up a certain way, and it is just how it was.

Over Tessa's shoulder, my eyes catch the gleam of the snow globe I left sitting in the sand.

 _The Yeager sisters are hugging._

Maybe there is a chance it can snow in Texas after all.

* * *

 **Sometimes, big action movies that try to incorporate "average" people in what has the chance to be a life-altering** **phenomenon** **can lose me on the whole characterization aspect of writing. I am well aware that it is fiction material created for entertainment, but a normal human being existing in a fictional world is still a human being, at the end of the day.**

 **The truth is reality and although the concept of Transformers is not real, people are.**

 **So this is it. These are people, everyday people with their own issues; they very well could be someone you see walking down the street. They're not "special", they just got thrown into a situation bigger than themselves.**

 **~ Rainy**


	7. Chapter 7: Metanoia

***I do not own Transformers. It belongs to its rightful owner.***

* * *

 _"Our nights have grown so long,_

 _Now we beg for sound advice."_

 _~ Sleeping at Last: Mars_

* * *

Chapter 7: Metanoia

 _\- (noun) the journey of changing one's mind, heart, self, or way of life._

It rains that night so I stay up to listen. The gas station's tin roof exaggerates the rain drops' wrath; I tuck my head further into a scratchy blanket that smells _wrong_ – not just because it is musky, but also because it is not from my own bed – and try to prevent the rain from destroying me. Everything around me is dark, I'm dark; and it sucks because I like colors.

My older sister is snoring softly in her Tessa-like way next to me on the hard ground. She is only asleep because she cried all of the energy out of her – or at least she was before the Earth started to cry, and now I am just trying to fill in gaps so I can become familiar with the fuzzy, pitch black of the night. I never had to see it before because there were bright stars and repurposed Christmas lights strung about back home.

There is a problem to why I cannot close my eyes and drift off, and a solution must be near because one always exists, right? Because every time I close my eyes someone is counting down, and I feel cold metal on my neck, and hear the two words I now despise being put together: _"Shoot her."_

My life is only worth two words; could that be what's wrong? It is some of it, I think . . . I mean, I know I am not the best kid and I get in trouble sometimes, but I thought there was _more._

My dad and Shane were talking earlier when I got up to use the bathroom; they thought I could not hear them.

 _"They were willing to kill her."_

 _"And they still are."_

Dad said the first, Shane, the latter.

It crept up on me, but now it is here, and I realize that today was the first day I was genuinely scared, today was the first day I felt _fear._ And I didn't like it, and the world flipped upside down, and now it may as well be raining upwards.

That's the problem. That's why I can't sleep.

The mask slipped off of the devil.

* * *

By morning, I am restless, which I guess is to be expected from a minimum amount of sleep. But it was not like I was up doing something, I was only lying there listening to whatever sounds an empty Texas desert makes, so the restlessness is dry; I get nothing from it.

"Grab whatever you think we can use for supplies," my dad instructs while we shuffle around, no one really slept. "Clothes, anything . . . _Oh, and take that computer."_

I think he is talking to Shane there, at least I hope so because I do not feel like lifting my head to look at my father, and exchange dialogue, and pack away some old, bulky computer.

 _Yeah, Cassie . . . well, look what the last rotting object turned out to be._

I guess Dad's words were not pointed at me because I do not hear my name while I push through stuff stored under the gas station's counter, searching for any potential supplies. The palms of my hands tingle from all of the dust caked on me, and the smell is like a combination of stale-sour. I do not know if this abandoned place is cool, or if I hate it . . . but I kind of want to get going soon.

My fingers brush over something coarse, but then they're back and I am clutching something. I pull it out and hold it up in the light rays that are peaking in through the cracks in the windows; I can practically see the dirt in the air. It is a jean jacket, probably a few sizes too big, but what are my options? Puffing, I press the jacket into my very own crate – which is part of about three more we found in the back, but we all got one. So far, I have the thin blanket I used last night, what is left of a roll of duct tape, some heavy-duty string, an empty liter of Diet Pepsi, but I could probably use the bottle for water or something, a random hat I found with the gas station's name on it, a tucked away pocket knife that I most likely will not speak of, and now I just added a jacket to the mix. I have never really had to pack "survival gear" before because everything was right there. The options are low and few in our hideout, but hopefully the other three have found something worth saving.

I take a step back, looking up and around me. The snow globe is sitting on the counter and I stare at it. Tapping my fingers, I make up my mind, grab it, and tell my dad I am going to use the bathroom because there is a porta-potty outside that smells like someone died in it.

"Don't fall in," Shane says.

 _"Yep."_ I reply, shoving my body at the door so it swings open easily. No one asked about why I was holding the snow globe, or maybe they didn't notice. It is for the best that way.

I dig the tips of my sneakers into the sand and kick around, shaking the snow globe hard enough that it turns into a blizzard. I do not know why I have an American-flag painted Texas trapped in a dome; I guess because it snows in this Texas and I have never seen that before. Straightening, I let the arm holding the snow globe lower to my side, the particles inside forming a snow tornado.

Flexing my fingers, I hurl the snow globe at a long dead shrub. It smashes into too many pieces to count, but the sound is not as loud as I anticipated, and I hope no one will come out wondering what happened. The liquid inside the snow globe leaks out and seeps into the dirt.

"Thanks for killing my friend . . ." I mutter.

A rumbling engine approaches and brakes squeal when a boxy truck pulls up next to me. Slowly, I rotate my head to eye its structure over my shoulder. I almost half-expect it to talk or something, but it just sits, and that is the weird part because I feel watched. I wish it _– he –_ would speak because then it could be one of those so-this-is-how-it-is moments that Shane and Dad "kind of" had in the gas station.

If I was in a better mood I would probably start a conversation, but I instead walk back into the only building in sight for miles and miles.

 _"Dad – "_ my voice cracks a little and everyone looks at me like something is wrong. I clear my throat. Try again.

"Dad, Optimus is here."

* * *

We pull off of the highway when we find a rest stop with the least amount of tourism. Optimus parks on top of a hill overlooking the whole setup, but it is located on level land where a type of road is visible, so we do not look horribly out of place. Dad, Tessa, Shane, and I each take turns heading down into the belly of the beast to use the bathroom, refill water bottles, catch our bearings – whatever really needs to be done. All of us wear dark sunglasses and baseball caps; the accessories do not hide our identity but they help prevent people from prying.

My head is up in the clouds and I am groggy, but walking around and sipping on water helps. The humidity is up and the sun is blaring because it is no longer morning hours, seems more like noon or after. Everything is hot, even the wind, and the brief rub down of weird-smelling, cold water in the bathroom did pretty much nothing to help.

I sit in the truck when it is my father's turn to go; I watch when he disappears down the hill and then reappears in the clearing, only his figure is much smaller. Both of the truck's doors are open, windows down, and it is tilted so the stinging sun rays are not in direct contact with my skin. I sit in the passenger side because I think it would be awkward to sit where the steering wheel is; it feels nice to not be in a human sandwich for once because that is how it is when we travel. My converse sneakers are on the seat, but I do not think it matters that much since the seats are already dirty, and my head is resting on my knees. I rock slightly, keeping myself awake.

The plan is to meet up with Optimus' friends; he said that they are in New Mexico somewhere. I do not know where we are – which state, which region – _nothing._

Tessa and Shane are standing outside, watching everything. I can hear them muttering about the people down below.

"Hey, Optimus," I say, kind of quietly, but it feels strange talking to basically nothing; I do not know where to look. "Are we still in Texas?" I instantly regret my question because I left out the fact that we are in public, and a car cannot just start _talking._ So I add: "You can move your mirrors for 'yes' or something,"

A beat later, the side mirror my head is turned to look at twitches my way. _Okay, so I am still in my home state._

"Your friends are in New Mexico, right?" I am still speaking lowly; I do not want my sister and her boyfriend to hear.

 _Yes._

I try to think about what else to ask because I like talking and it helps me feel like me again. "Have you talked to them?"

Nothing. _So, no, then?_

My attention is drawn to my father when he clambers back up the hill separating us from society. He was last in line to use the bathroom, so I prepare myself both mentally and physically to move into the back seat since we will be hitting the road again. However, the way he hustles around Optimus, glistening from sweat, and fumbles with the driver side door even when it is already open, ripping off his sunglasses and hat, tells me something is up. I raise an eyebrow as I observe him rifling through crates in the back, and Shane and Tessa are here and curious.

Dad pokes his head between the seats, holding a screen with a mess of wires and cables attached, and some kind of drone-looking-thing. His eyes are bright.

"I have an idea."

* * *

The idea is to hack into the drone and get whatever information we can; also to screw around with the government pricks who blew up our farm. Apparently, Dad obtained the drone when chaos rained down at home because it was in his face recording our almost execution, and he just grabbed it. It doesn't have any ties to its last owner anymore and he claimed that he played around with it a bit last night when Tessa and I were outside. Everything the drone is connected to – the screen for a visual and joysticks for control – all came from Dad's crate, which is from the gas station.

I remain in the passenger seat when Dad has everything operating. My legs are pressed against the open door, feet dangling out of the down window; I am all stretched out. Tessa is sitting on the steps leading up to my seat; Shane is down with Dad because it is more of a two person job. I watch my dad slide the joystick to the right and left, the screen from the drone's point of view displaying that he is maneuvering it around several short trees.

"That's pretty cool," I state, shifting in my seat a little because I can only sit one way for so long.

"This is not easy . . ." Dad murmurs, not taking his eyes off of the pixelated screen.

My older sister chimes in from her place below me, "You know, you don't suck at everything, Dad."

I roll my eyes, crossing my arms. Sometimes he can suck at the Dad part and the whole inventing thing, but he still tries. He had Tessa when he was basically still a kid, and then I came four years later, and he was a single dad. The problem is he is set one way, and I am kind of like him, but Tessa is her own being entirely.

Dad nudges the drone up to the ATM machine because we used some of my duct tape to slap his bank card on there. An elderly man stands in the way, but once he is bumped with the flying device he makes a surprised-kind-of noise and walks away. Are drones supposed to be a normal thing here? Maybe he's confused . . .

Either way, it is a good thing the man does not cause much of any scene towards our contraption. It makes it a lot easier for my dad to ease his card into the slot with his already shaky hands and sweaty palms. Once read, my father's name pops up on the ATM, and in one second, big, angry red letters flash across the screen: "DECLINED. LOCKED ACCOUNT.".

Of course.

 _"Shit."_ I whisper. The car seat nudges me, I pause.

I hear a sigh. "I knew it . . ."

As if on cue, ear piercing sirens cut through the air and three cop cars speed up over the horizon. I sit up and brace my arms on my knees when I see the three vehicles skid to a stop, and officers pouring out with guns blazing just because they got a sniff of where we might be.

I'm not a criminal.

* * *

New Mexico is not as grand as I thought it would be.

Sure, there is a sign "welcoming" me to the state and it is not Texas, but it looks the same as my home state. An open, empty strip of road in the middle of desert, dry heat, and oh, yeah, the fact that I am some kind of wanted person still exists in New Mexico, too.

The only thing that seems to be going for me right now is that the four of us managed to find personal space during the last leg of this trip to God knows where. Dad is in the driver's seat resting his arm out of the window; Shane is sitting in the passenger seat but a little tense, probably because I kicked his seat when he said something stupid earlier. Tessa is to my left, looking slouched and bored. I have my back rested against the side of truck as it wobbles over bumps in the road. My feet are on the seat, I'm turned so I face my sister; I doubt there are seatbelts back here so it doesn't matter how I sit.

I pull my baseball cap over my face to give my eyes a break. Optimus is talking on the radio, trying to reach someone.

Suddenly, there is a _ZAP!_ and my hat falls off when I am pushed onto floor. Everything kind of explodes – at least it looks like it does – but nothing is hurting from it. It is all open and changing, and as quick as it starts it ends, and Optimus Prime's whole interior is now like a type of expensive, nice leather that carries a new car smell.

And I feel like I am going to throw up.

"That was insane!" Shane exclaims, all the while I am holding on to the back of his seat and trying to make my headache go away. Too much too soon. That is all it is. "It was awesome, but it was insane, right?"

I do not have a clue what just happened and my stomach is not helping me figure it out either. I can only remember the granola bar I ate today and awkwardly shoving a few one dollar bills at the cashier, money that Shane gave me to get something to eat with. I did not want to get recognized because at home I learned that I cannot talk myself out of the situation.

I sit myself up, head rolling. "Well, I do not feel very awesome. Can we pull over, please?"


	8. Chapter 8: Dustsceawung

**I would like to apologize for my long absence these past months. I took a break from the Internet in general for mental health reasons. I'm blown away by how much this small project has grown since I have been gone. Thank you all so much.**

 ***I do not own Transformers. It belongs to its rightful owner.***

* * *

 _"We promised we'd be safe,_

 _Another lie from the front lines."_

 _~ Sleeping at Last: Mars_

* * *

Chapter 8: Dustsceawung

 _\- (noun) the knowledge that all things will turn to dust._

I stand on the sand of New Mexico, trying to figure out why the bad in me won't get out when it was clawing at my throat while we were on the road. The semi truck we're traveling in is still on the road's sidelines, and I'm in the sand coughing up the _nothing_ in me; the other three are watching. I turn over and let the sand take me; the air is so heavy and the horizon looks squiggly. Wiping at the sweat coating my skin, I sniffle, swallow, breathe – bring myself back down to planet Earth, back to the life I guess is wonderful because my heart still works. My hands grab fistfuls of sand to steady myself – which is nothing because the grains disappear from the gaps between my fingers. It doesn't make sense how a whole bunch of _nothing_ can make _something_ to support my weight, and if that were the case Nothing Lucas would once again be Something Lucas, and I wouldn't be trying to throw up my sadness.

Pushing up, I get up and walk to my sister because she's who I want, she always knows how to make things go away. She brushes the Earth's fragments from my skin, what's left of the sand, and I climb back into the semi truck. The A/C is blasting and I welcome it, resting my forehead on the cooling glass of my window. A new car smell remains present in the interior, but I like it because it is familiar amongst everything I don't know. I smell old, like nature old, and my skin feels scratchy.

Dad beings speaking when we start moving again. I don't hear him but I nod anyways. Shane hands me a packet of crackers he did not finish; I decide I can tolerate him.

There are seatbelts in the back now. Mine seems to stretch towards me and I take hold of it to click it into place; if I find it weird, I don't mention it. I want to talk and be me, but I'm too tired. And I know it's wrong, I know I can't bury it beneath sand that is only molecules.

I know there are better ways to deal with loss.

This one is just the easiest.

* * *

I wish things could go back to making sense again. At least, the type of "sense" where everything is the same until you can't remember when there ever was a different. No one likes different.

I got it, _I understood it,_ my old life – I had to go to school because it was the law, and Tessa was my older sister because she was born first, and Mom died because she wasn't strong enough, and I had to grow up because time doesn't stop if you're scared, and Lucas drunkenly floated around because his mom was in some home forgetting him, so he drank to forget himself, too, and we had eviction notices and surprise "open houses" because the bills weren't paid, and we couldn't pay the bills because Dad didn't invent something that mattered enough yet.

Now, I don't understand how there's five giant Transformers surrounding me, like some twisted up family reunion. I sit down on a large rock, more like a boulder, and hope that when the dust settles from everyone's arrival that they won't notice me, because sometimes I fail to see that the screen door is in place until I collide with the sturdy wire.

There's a bunch of _whirling_ noises that sound far from anything I have heard in humanity: like a house settling, or walking into a crowded place, or sitting in traffic, or being alone. It doesn't even sound earthly – more so Mars – and it's alien, and unknown, and kind of a scream in a galaxy within outer space. I hear _pings_ as engines cool and dust evaporates in heavy air, and suddenly Optimus is there, "Humans have asked us to play by their rules," I think he means when they used to work with the government, until they turned on them. Yeah, I know what that feels like. "Well, the rules have just changed."

I guess they did. Transformers used to be fighting alongside the military on TV, controlled by an upper power, and everything was fine and dandy until we found something better, something that didn't talk back, because that's what always happens. Fast forward to present day, and we hid a leader in our barn. Optimus Prime is stuck with some inventor from Texas, his two daughters, and a rally car driver. Sorry.

Optimus' friends begin to inch closer, and whether they realize the four beings that breathe – which their leader practically dumped into the New Mexico sand – or not, they do not say anything about it. The biggest one of the four newcomers has a green-brown type of a paint job, the color clearly peeling and washed away from lack of care. His footsteps echo loudly like boulders crashing together, kicking up dust that is angry as ever in my nostrils. I wonder how much dust you can breathe in before you pass out.

The Transformer is holding what appears to be some out-of-this-world type of weapon and there are bullets – or, missiles? – on his armor. A rush of Tessa screaming from a missile flying into the kitchen, pressure on my neck from a gun, the house and barn erupting into tiny pieces, and Lucas' charred remains passes through me. I squeeze my eyes closed for a moment, scrape my nails on the rough exterior of the boulder I am perched on. _It's fine._

He drops the alien weapon to the ground, the world shakes. _"Human beings . . ."_ he grumbles, approaching Optimus. There's no reason for me to be afraid so I push it far away, stare holes into the back of my dad's head. "Buncha backstabbin' weasels." It looks like there is a blown up version of a cigar in his mouth, but I cannot be sure; doesn't make much sense why they would smoke if they have no lungs to kill. But he is right about us. We lie, we hurt each other, and for what? Dad didn't tell me the real reason Mom died for the longest time; he said she got really sick and that was it. Then one day Tessa was mad and told me that she actually died during childbirth with me. Sometimes, when it gets really bad between us she still apologizes for it, but I'm over it. All water under the bridge, I think.

An Autobot – I believe that is what Optimus calls them, the good ones, at least – with blue armor addresses the one who was just speaking, the one with all of the weaponry attached to his body, "Hound, find your inner compass." he tells _Hound,_ I guess. The blue Autobot is much smaller than Hound, but he doesn't seem imitated or anything. He clasps his – _hands?_ – together, speaking off into the nothingness like he's reciting something: "Loyalty is but a flower in the winds of fear and temptation."

What?

"What the hell is that supposed to mean . . .?" I murmur off to myself. Well, the words are supposed to be for me and only me, but I am still working on the whole low-key thing, and my words tend to carry, and I can't help that I'm me. I'm me and I like to talk; sometimes I'm loud and people hate it. I do not mean to be. So I do not mean to gain any attention when my dad turns around to give me a very pointed look that screams _don't. Don't start, don't say anything, don't try to be a smarta- . . . smartbutt._

I think I may have gotten that trait from Mom and that's what he hates the most.

Pulling my legs up and tucking them into my chest, I rest my head on my knees, but keep my eyes open so I am looking through the cracks of my body down at the section of rock I am sitting on. I sniffle due to the never ending dust storm from the Transformers. It is later in the day but the heat is relentless. My index finger on my right hand finds a loop in my Converse's laces. I twist it around.

Apparently, what the blue Autobot said was some sort of Haiku, but I can't see why an alien would want to study a form of Japanese poetry. I find it quite boring – actually, scratch that, _all of school is boring._ But I won't ever be able to go back, I won't ever be able to have a normal life again. Maybe boring is good.

Hound and the other Transformer begin fighting about something, not really sure what, but it is loud. I listen in on them talking about living, and dying, and wanting to die, which I do not understand because I have never wanted that before. The little blue Transformer sounds like he may have an accent laced somewhere in his voice, if that is even possible. Then again, when Optimus speaks at times he can sound awfully human. It makes no sense.

 _"You know what . . . it'll save us so much time."_ states pieces of clips from a . . . radio? Lifting my head, I angle my body to better see the source since it came from behind me, and I spot a black-and-yellow bot, much shorter than any of the others. He comes forward a few steps, which would be more like twenty for me, and he acknowledges me by nodding. _Can he not talk?_ Raising my eyebrows, I slowly lift my fingers to kind-of-say-'hi' back. I realize that all of their eyes are blue. It's weird.

Finally, the last Autobot that has yet to say anything comes into the sort of circle we've made. His arm is raised above his head, coloring is as green as green can get. "Well, raise your hand if you're thoroughly disenchanted with our little pleasant Earth vacation."

Haven't they been here for almost nine years, though? That's way longer than any vacation I have ever been on. If they hate it so much, why can't they just go home? I have a lot of questions that I can probably ask Optimus later because Dad informed me not to talk.

If anyone raises their hand I don't see it. Then again, it is not like I have time to check since before I can take a full breath, there is a _click_ and a warming, charging, powering up – whatever – gigantic gun in my face. It smells metallic, I taste blood in my mouth.

The owner of the weapon is the green Transformer. He asks, almost casually, "So, who are the stowaways?"

I narrow my eyes at him. I'm so tired of guns in my face and situations I have no control over. I feel my dad putting himself between the danger and his family, his hand brushes my knee. Tessa is at my side. She looks scared, or unsettled, startled, even. I hate when she feels like this because usually she is the one who doesn't let it show; now I really do not know what to do.

Dad throws his arms out, staring down the barrel. "Whoa, whoa. _Hey!_ What's with the gun?" This causes Hound to point a gun at us, too; for some reason I cannot comprehend. I slide further back on the boulder, pulling my sister with me.

Optimus Prime breaks everything up merely by his presence moving to stand between humans and Transformers. He tells them to put down their weapons, they do. I push air harshly out of my nose. The perks of being friends with the head of another species, I guess? Optimus says that we saved him, yet he saved us big time. He informs the other Autobots that they owe us.

They do?

* * *

I learn the names of the rest of the Autobots after the shoot-first-ask-questions-later ordeal that Optimus had to break up. Crosshairs is the one who pointed his gun at us; it looks like it belongs to some giant in a fairytale. His paint job is the color green found on trees, and since there doesn't seem to be any source of shade for miles, he is easily spotted in the desert. The blue Transformer with the soft accent is Drift; he has a huge samurai-type sword strapped to his back. The last of the three unknowns and the smallest – considering I practically overlooked him earlier – is the black-and-yellow Autobot, Bumblebee. He uses the radio to talk because his real voice is damaged beyond repair. I think it is kind of cool but I couldn't imagine it, not being able to talk. My voice is what makes me _me_ and talking to people is where I feel okay. All of my life I have lived in Tessa's footsteps, and because of that, people have pointed out how different we are, but in a weird, not-good way.

Speaking is normal and a category I fit in, but sometimes I feel like I screw that up, too.

The desert runs cold once the sun slithers away, replaced by thousands of tiny stars and a hollow moon. The four of us sit huddled around a crackling campfire with dying wood. I'm in my stolen denim jacket, the sleeves pull out a few inches from where the tips of my fingers actually end. I am also wrapped up in my scratchy blanket. My head rests on Dad's shoulder, breathing in the familiarity while I play with the frayed edges of the blanket. He runs a hand up and down one of my goosebump-covered arms. I don't feel as cold as I look.

Tessa is on the other side of Dad with her own blanket over her shoulders. She's not moving much. Shane is perched across the way of the fiery path. He's messing around with the shrubbery. The Autobots shuffle around from time to time; they're talking about how they are the only ones left of their kind. I wonder how many there were before humans got involved.

"So, that's our best-case scenario?" Shane says/asks, turning a stick around in his hands. "Autobot witness protection?" He sounds skeptical, as he has been before back at the gas station. I don't know if this is the best plan, either, but we'll take what we can get. Plus, every other place wants us dead. How am I supposed to stomach that?

"Hey, Speed Racer," my dad starts slowly, carefully. He sounds like he does when he has been in the barn for too long. The fire illuminates his skin to a soft orange. He is close so his voice is practically in my ear. "You're welcome to leave any time."

I have my days with Shane. Days where I think he's a genuine person and is good for my older sister, makes her happy. Days where I would consider possibly sticking up for him when it comes down to it with Dad because he treated me like an actual human being, and not just the little sister to steer clear of because I could ruin his day. Then there are also days where I hate him because he made Tessa cry over something dumb, and maybe he is only another High School boyfriend.

It constantly teeters back and forth. I haven't settled on a conclusion yet.

I watch Shane break the stick he has been holding in two, tossing it into the flames. "Well, for the record, _Superdad – "_ I remove my head from Dad's shoulder to stop looking at the world at an angle because perhaps I heard Shane wrong, since my brain wasn't right side up and I was seeing things funny. "I'm not hidin' out with you." He points to something over our heads: Optimus Prime. "I'm hidin' out with that big guy."

I know I heard him right and I set my jaw. "We all are, _not just you."_ I mumble the last part but it is still audible, digging my dirty sneakers into the terrain.

"I'm aware, kid." says Shane, easily, honestly; but I still don't believe him all of the way through. We're not family. "I just gotta – " He stops, almost like he is remembering what happened, how we were on "okay" terms before he started talking.

I shrug so roughly that I can feel the tips of my shoulders compress into my jaw, releasing down in a huff so that it pulls at my neck. It hurts, almost. _"What?_ Look out for yourself?" My blanket has dipped off of the upper half of my body. Dad grabs my arm and I know that if I looked at him we'd start having some silent conversation, but I don't want to have that. I get backed into a corner of listening that way. "You think my dad can't?" I challenge Shane, fingers curling in on themselves within my too-big-for-my-body jacket. The Autobots are talking about something and rustling around, but it is all background noise at this point.

 _"Cassie."_ warns Dad. He adds slight pressure into his hold on me.

"I know he can't. That's the point."

The fire breaks louder than before; debris explodes, floats all around Shane. Either one of the sparks caught his face alight, or there is water in my eyes, because Shane suddenly looks distorted. It burns. Everyone doubts my dad. They may not at first, but in the end they will, they always do. Even me.

Shane is going by in flashes while I blink away the hurt. "Bull." I sound like I am underwater.

 _"Cassie, please."_ Dad sounds so tired, and I feel bad about it because I know I give him trouble, and I want to tell him that I can't let it go, and why I can't, but I also can't speak this time, to him, at least, and there is a lot of 'can not's' in my brain when really it might be 'will not'.

Shane talks with half of his distorted face buried in the dark, the places the fire will not touch, "Your friend was burned to bits and you were held at gunpoint. I don't see how – "

And that's when Bumblebee pounces on Drift for a reason I do not know, and everyone starts arguing about how wrong the world is


End file.
